Echoes of Glory
by Eregriel Gloswen
Summary: Thousands of years after the War of the Ring, the world is as we know it. But now, faced with a new evil, the current guardians of Earth can only see one alternative: they must seek out the Fellowship, lifetimes later, and reawaken the heroes within.
1. The Call

Disclaimer: _The Lord of the Rings_, and all things therein, are the creations of Professor J.R.R. Tolkien, and belong to his descendants. I do not claim to own any of the brilliance that is his work, nor am I making any money off this. All I own is a battered copy of the Elvish-English English-Elvish dictionary and the Franz Ferdinand CD I'm currently listening to.

Author's Note: So, I wasn't able to do as much on "Enting" as I'd have liked before I went away. My muse just wasn't in the mood. Instead, I was compelled to begin my next story, one I've had simmering in my brain for quite some time. It was actually partially written on a floppy disk several months ago, but my disk decided to die on me. In weeks and months past, when I've tried to sit down and work on "Enting", this story kept playing out in my mind. Now, hopefully, having both published will allow me to update on a relatively regular basis.

The brevity of this chapter is to retain the mystery. It's not because I got lazy. Well, maybe it's partially that, but most of it is mystery.

One: The Call

The full moon was rising in the Summer Solstice sky as the bearded old man ascended the hill. By the looks of him, he should have been huffing and puffing, but the man showed no sign of tiring. On the contrary, he set to work at once, arranging nine thick white candles in a large circle around the top of the hill. Setting the tenth candle in the center, he held his arms out, palms upward. One wouldn't know it now, but many years ago, it had been at this place that the great tower of Orthanc stood. The long-dormant power of this place, along with that of the Solstice and the moon, would aid him well in his task, for even a being as powerful as he could not be sure of how far his words would have to reach.

"Silelye i narcal!" He declared, his voice much louder than one would expect, and at once, all ten candles came alight. The air came alive with a crackle of energy, and a slight breeze picked up, making the candle flames flicker, but not blow out. "Alcaratani," he chanted. "Le linnathon. Ortan alcarin coi lyon. Diror a eler! Encuielyer!" He stopped momentarily, letting his words echo over the land. The valley had faded into silence once more, when again he spoke. His voice was in deceptively even tones, hiding the power surging behind his words. As if in a trance, his words slipped in and out of the graceful Elvish tongue he had begun with: 

"Those who wander, return now

That which was lost, be found

Door that was closed, now open

He who is king, be crowned

Light that was snuffed, rekindle

Those who were blind, now see

Those who were sleeping, awaken

Arise, and return to me."

The haunting words rang out over the land, loud enough that anyone within many kilometers would normally wake up to find out what the great racket was. But, fortunately, no one lived anywhere near this land anymore.

Seemingly satisfied, the old man let his arms fall to his sides. Taking one last look at the perfect orb that was the moon, he took one step, then another, and another, slowly making his way to the edge of the ring of candles. He did not look back until he reached the bottom of the hill, when he turned back around and, in one sweeping motion, swept his hands up from his sides, like a maestro commanding an orchestra into a powerful crescendo. At once, all candles snuffed out but the one in the center. Their separate wisps of smoke floated away as if on a strong breeze, except no two went in the same direction. The central candle, if anything, burned brighter, the flame rising above the waxen body like a welcoming beacon.  
__

* * *

He knew he was dreaming. He realized such a thing often when he was asleep, but usually the sudden awareness was accompanied by suddenly awakening. Not this time, however. He knew it was a dream, that he was not standing on the edge of this valley, but still it remained in his vision. He still saw the bearded man standing in the circle of candlelight, heard the words echo across his mind, felt the sizzle of power in the man's words. A part of him wanted to look away, but his eyes remained fixated on this activity in the otherwise deserted valley.

The old man stopped speaking, and left the circle. Was it over? It couldn't be, his mind surmised, because he was still looking over the vale. Wouldn't he have awakened by now if it were over? Indeed, he proved to be right, when the man in white turned back around, putting out all but one of the candles in one swift movement.

Tendrils of smoke worked their way through the air away from the ring. Most seemed to be picking up speed, moving away from the land, but one seemed to be heading his way. This was one realistic dream, he noted, coughing as the smoke entered his nose and encircled his head. It began to solidify in front of him, and take shape into something that resembled a person.

It wasn't himself, but something about the smoky figure in front of him was familiar in that specific sort of way. He faintly recognized the ethereal face in front of him, but could not place it.

The smoke-being held out its translucent arms, palms out as if to signal stop. He could not control his own body, but saw himself reflect the movements as if he were a mirror image of the smoke-figure. The palms of their hands touched, and a prickly shiver went through his body. The smoke-person was disappearing, as if it were being sucked into his hands. He felt his body fill with something, a feeling that was new but not entirely unfamiliar. It was like a bizarre sense of déjà vu. He let himself sink into this feeling of rightness for what felt like ages.

His conscious mind was suddenly alive and ticking again. This is wrong**_, _**it said. Something switched on in his head at that. He fought off the blissful fog that had enveloped his mind, and forced himself to wake up. 


	2. Jimmy

Two: Jimmy

Ladies and gentlemen, we are now approaching Gate Twenty-Four at Heathrow Airport. It is currently 10:45 AM London time. The weather right now is overcast, thirteen degrees Centigrade with a slight wind from the southeast. Please stay in your seats until the aircraft has come to a complete stop, and do make sure you have all of your items with you when you vacate the area. Thank you for flying British Airways; we hope you've had a comfortable flight, and that you enjoy the rest of your stay.

He could hear the flight attendant's voice blare over the intercom in the place, but he couldn't bring himself to open his eyes. He loved these few moments when he was waking up when he could still remember parts of his dreams. Usually he was quite good at piecing them together, but the more he reached for this one, the less he remembered.

"Jimmy," a soft female voice murmured in his ear. "Jimmy, wake up. We've landed." It was a different sort of voice than the even, saccharine tones of the flight attendant. This voice was younger, and had the slight lilt of flirty mischief that could only belong to one person: his girlfriend, Jessica. He sighed slightly, but made no motion to move. He heard her slight sigh of exasperation, just before there was a sharp stabbing pain in his left shoulder. He let out a shout; one hand flew to his shoulder, while the other reached to his side for his sword.

Except… he didn't have a sword.

Jimmy opened his eyes to see the cabin full of passengers lining up to leave the plane, most of whom were staring at him rather oddly. Jessica was sitting in her seat next to him, one hand still in the air from when she had prodded him only seconds before. He smiled nervously at the other passengers, before turning to glare at his girlfriend.

"What the _hell_ was that for?" He muttered, rubbing his shoulder.

"Sor-_ry,_" Jessica let out an annoyed sigh. "I poked you. _Poked _you, you wimp."

Jimmy rolled his eyes, standing up to take his place in the long line. He was greeted with the questioning stares of his best friend, Frankie. Frankie's girlfriend, Hannah, was there too, but she was absorbed in reapplying her makeup with a compact. She probably hadn't even heard him shout, he laughed inwardly. Hannah only looked up once Jessica joined the rabble of people slowly moving to the front.

Jimmy kept standing on his tiptoes, trying to see how much further they had to go. He wasn't what most would exactly call "tall", so the action involved a lot of hopping up and down on his part. Finally, Frankie, being a good head taller, put a firm hand on top of Jimmy's head.

"Calm down, Sparky," he chuckled. "We had the last row of seats on the plane; we're not getting out of here anytime soon." Jimmy swore under his breath, rubbing his shoulder again.

"It's your own fault," Jessica remarked. "_You_ were the one who booked the tickets." He looked over at her, his face in an expression that stated that he was clearly not amused, before he ducked around the carryon belonging to the businessman in front of them. He commenced with elbowing his way to the front, pausing only momentarily to apologize to those he was passing.

Under normal circumstances, this would be seen as quite rude, but by this time they were fairly close to the front as it was. He started down the cramped little hallway leading to the gate. Feeling a sense of obligation, he waited there for the others.

While Frankie stopped next to him, Jessica and Hannah, noses in the air, kept walking. Finally the two young men had to run after their girlfriends to catch up.

"Jessica, wait, come on," he called after her.

"Why?" She sneered, turning around. "So you can shriek like a girl if I bump shoulders with you?"

"Are you really going to be that petty?"

"Are you really going to be a whiny little bitch for this whole trip?" She retorted, tossing her long brown hair over one shoulder. "This whole thing was _your_ idea, if you don't remember. We were _going _to go stay with my Aunt Shay in Miami, but _you_ decided you wanted to go to boring, _cold_ old England for summer break!"

"Hey, I paid for the tickets, didn't I?"

"That's not the point!"

"If you had such a problem with this, you could have stayed in San Francisco!"

"This is what I'm talking about!" Jessica shrilled, throwing down her Louis Vuitton carryon bag like a small child about to have a tantrum. "You've been so… _mean_ today, ever since we took off!" She crossed her arms, looking all the more like a fussy little girl. "Just because you turned nineteen before the rest of us, doesn't mean you can just treat us like… like… _I don't know!_" Her face scrunched into a pout. "This isn't the wild, fun graduation trip I wanted."

"Oh, honey," he sighed, moving to put his arms around her. "It's just the trip. I get anxious when I'm travelling. And I… pulled a muscle in my shoulder when I was packing, so I'm a little sensitive there right now." He was lying through his teeth, but he didn't know why. In truth, he had no idea why he was reacting so strongly to such little things. "Come on, baby," he whispered soothingly in her ear. "We're still going to Miami. We're only going to be here a few days. That's all."

The shadow of a smile played on Jessica's lips. "I guess this could be okay," she murmured. "I mean, we could do some killer shopping here, couldn't we?" Jimmy nodded, patting her back softly. _Whatever you need to believe, _he thought.

Jessica seemed pacified for the moment. "We'd better get to the hotel," she said as Frankie and Hannah joined them at the baggage carousel. "After all, it's—" She looked down at her watch. "— three o'clock in the morning back home." The other two nodded enthusiastically, though Jimmy didn't feel like checking into a hotel at the moment. Now that they were actually there, he wanted to get going as soon as possible.

He still wasn't sure what had spurred him to look at ticket prices to England that morning, nearly three weeks ago. He had gone to the travel website to confirm their plane tickets to Miami, when he found himself intrigued by a completely different section of the site. He had gone on to research tours and the history of different areas, until he found himself buying four tickets, nonstop San Francisco to London.

The others were staring at him. He couldn't figure out why, until he realized that he was the one who knew what hotel in which they were staying. Leading the way out of the airport, he gave the name of their hotel to the taxi driver as they piled in, all exhausted from the journey.

* * *

"What's with your hair?"

Jimmy, having just emerged from the bathroom in their hotel room, looked at Hannah questioningly.

"Your hair," she repeated. "It's… wavy."

One eyebrow raised, Jimmy raised a hand to feel the dyed-black bangs that hung just past his eyebrows. Sure enough, they had a definite wave to them, but it wasn't especially noticeable. Not breaking news, in his opinion, but the two girls sprawled on one of the two beds in the room seemed to find it fascinating.

"Jimmy," Jessica started. "Back home you don't…." she stood up, running a hand through his still-damp hair. "You _do_!" She squealed, finding whatever it was she was referring to to be an absolute riot.

"Do what?"

"You blow dry!" Hannah giggled. "I mean, I suspected it, but I always assumed you were too… I don't know, manly, to do anything like that."

"I don't!" He exclaimed, finding the very idea incredulous, but neither girl seemed to buy it. He sighed exasperatedly as he walked to the opposite side of the other bed, tightening the towel slung low around his hips in the process. Jessica let out a suggestive "rowr." He gave her a crooked smile in return, running the tip of his tongue over his upper lip.

"Great," Hannah groaned. "Now we're going to have to listen to you two go at it all night." Frankie was laughing from his perch on a chair on the other side of the room; Jimmy rolled his eyes at him.

"Like we'll get the chance," he replied, pulling a black T-shirt over his head. "We're just here for a nap, before we catch the train to Dover."

"Dover?" Hannah asked. "What's that?"

"It's the town we're staying in," he replied. "It's in Kent, the next county over."

"Kent?" Jessica looked confused. "I thought we'd get to go shopping in London."

"Sorry, babe, but this is the plan. We can't miss that train."

"Well…" the brunette appeared to be thinking very hard. "There'll be good shopping there, won't there?"

"I don't know, Jess," he shrugged. "Maybe."

Jessica's lower lip quivered, ever so slightly.

"But," he quickly went on, "the scenery's really romantic. I was hoping we could have some… alone time… together." As the girl's expression changed completely, Jimmy noted how good he was getting at making up excuses on the spot.

* * *

Finally, he felt some sort of peace.

The four young students had been able to take nice long naps, and had caught their train with time to spare. With things going so well, Jimmy had expected to relax once the trip was under way, but on the contrary, as the train neared Dover, he became all the more anxious. He drummed his fingers, an old nervous habit, with steadily greater intensity, until Frankie finally grabbed the other young man's hand and held it down for the rest of the ride.

But they had arrived in Dover that afternoon without any big mishaps; now Jimmy stood a few feet from the edge of the cliffs overlooking the Channel, gazing over the water, and for the first time all day, he let himself totally relax. Nothing mattered anymore; they had reached their destination, and now everything was fine.

A slender pair of arms slipped around his waist, pulling him abruptly away from his peaceful stupor. He clenched his teeth in momentary annoyance, before reaching to take her hands and pull her around to his front. Wrapping his arms around her shoulders, he held her against him. He had been right after all; this was pretty romantic.

"Where are Frankie and Hannah?" He asked.

"Back at the bed and breakfast," Jessica grinned, "having some 'grownup time.' We'd best not disturb them."

Jimmy let out a low laugh. "Frankie, you dog."

Jessica giggled absently, her grey eyes lost in the landscape before them. "God," she whispered. "You weren't kidding about the view." Jimmy nodded silently. They had been in the town for less than a day, and already he felt like he had come home. It wasn't déjà vu, but it was close. He couldn't remember ever having been this comfortable on a vacation.

The more he stared across the terrain, however, the more he had the feeling that something was wrong. The prickly, quasi-déjà vu feeling was back, only now it was like coming home, only to find a different house at your address. He let go of Jessica, and took a couple of steps back, looking around to try to figure out what it was that seemed different.

It's the water, he said to himself. He couldn't explain why, but he was getting an overwhelming feeling that the water shouldn't be there. The green hills were mean to roll on, not drop off suddenly and give way to chalky white precipice and steely blue water. He stepped forward, passing Jessica, until he was mere inches from the edge.

"I remember this place," he whispered, soft enough that his girlfriend couldn't hear him. "I remember it, but not like this." He stepped back again, and flattened himself to the ground, so that he could not see the cliffs and the Channel. If he kept his head to the ground at just the right angle, he could only see the green of the grass meeting the clear blue of the summer sky. _Perfect,_ he thought.

"You okay, baby?" Once more, she broke his concentration. He took a deep, calming breath, before sitting up to look at her.

"Fine," he smiled. "Just felt like, you know, communing with the land."

Jessica laughed, bending down to come face to face with him as he sat on the ground. "You're starting to sound like your parents."

Jimmy grinned cheekily back. "What can I say? Flower child's in my blood."

"I'm gonna head back. That okay with you?"

"Fine with me," he replied, laying back on the soft grass as she turned to walk away. Something still didn't feel right. Pushing his head up slightly, he looked down at his body, dressed in old, worn-in jeans and a green and white baseball T-shirt, sprawled on the ground. All of the sudden his feet were killing him. He struggled into a seated position once more and began unlacing his black high tops. Once shoes and socks were on the ground next to him, he rubbed his feet a bit to ease out the tension, but by that time the pain was gone. He shrugged, standing up and brushing himself off without bothering to put his shoes back on.

The feeling of the soft grass against his feet was a bit strange. Growing up in a city like San Francisco, he had never really been able to take his shoes off outdoors; his parents were all for communing with nature and getting back to basics, but they knew the basic safety and hygiene behind shoes. He had expected the earth to be hard and rocky on the soles of his inexperienced feet, but in fact, the grass and soil were velvety soft beneath him. He marveled at this, sighing lightly at the comfort of the ground compared to the rough texture of his socks.

A yelp of surprise and pain behind him made him look back. Perhaps one hundred yards away, Jessica had fallen. Instinctively he ran to her, easily sweeping her into his arms.

"Oh dear," he commented. "Let me get you inside, my home's just on the other side of that hill."

"What?"

Jimmy froze. "What?" He asked, doing his best to pretend he hadn't noticed the utter absurdity of his words.

"Well, one," she remarked, staring at him with one eyebrow raised, "you've never picked me up before. Two, what's this 'home' crap?" He shrugged in answer to her question, still attempting to be nonchalant. "And three," she continued, "all I did was twist my ankle. No big deal. Although," Jessica smiled deviously, "that chivalrous act might score you some points later."

Jimmy dropped her to her feet abruptly. Under normal circumstances, he'd have smiled and made a couple of lewd comments, but he really wasn't in the mood to flirt with her right now. Her superficial attitude was starting to get to him, and at that moment, he wanted to escape it more than anything.

"Come on," she said, tugging on his sleeve slightly, "let's go back." He looked around a moment, not wanting to leave. This place felt too good to leave, but he knew he couldn't stay here forever; the sun was starting to set. Finally, he slumped his shoulders in defeat, and began following her back to the road.

"Wait," Jessica said, holding out a hand to stop him; she pointed down at his still-bare feet. "You forgot your shoes!"

He turned back around, looking at the little heap of sock and high-top that dotted the otherwise smooth plane of grass. Sighing reluctantly, he jogged back to them, stuffing them under his arm unceremoniously. Walking slowly back to Jessica, a lone tree near him caught his eye.

At first glance, it looked like any other birch tree, but something drew him to it. Jimmy ran a hand along the smooth bark; the silver-grey color was darker than most birch trees he had ever seen. The leaves were different too, longer than birch, and an odd combination of sterling and emerald. The tree was like nothing he had ever seen before, and yet words came to his mind.

"Mallorn," he whispered. "The Party Tree." _Well, not the _actual _Party Tree_, he thought, before he realized that he had no idea what his own mind was talking about. But he acknowledged that part of him recognized the tree, which led to the same questions he had been asking since he had arrived at the cliff earlier that afternoon. _Why_ was this all so familiar?

"Jimmy, come _on,_" Jessica called. He made a face at being interrupted yet _again,_ but turned and sprinted to her all the same. As the two left the cliff behind, one thing became clear in his mind: he couldn't leave England yet. What's more, he didn't want to.

* * *

"_What?_"

Jimmy took a deep breath for what felt like the thousandth time in the three days they had been in Dover. "I said, I'm not going to Florida. I'm staying here."

Judging by the tantrum she was throwing, Jessica was not amused. "How can you do this to me?" She shrieked, so loudly that Jimmy's ears popped. "You drag me to this _snore_ of a country, to this _snore_ of a town, with the promise that we'll have a great time in Miami, and now you pull this crap?" Jimmy ducked as a hairbrush was thrown at him. "How dare you, James Webb? How _dare_ you?"

By this time, Jimmy had no idea what she was talking about or why this was such a big deal, but there was no way he was budging on this. He couldn't leave now, not when he was so close, but Jessica couldn't understand that. All that was on her mind was the fact that her plans had been unexpectedly changed.

"_Why_, though?" In his dodging of flying objects, Jimmy hadn't noticed that Jessica was still whining. "Why aren't you coming with us anymore? Why do you want to stay in this _craphole_ of a country?"

That set the young man off. It was one thing if she was going to insult him or his choice, or think it was a bit boring, but to insult the whole country in such a way was just arrogant.

"Why?" He said softly, but in a tone so menacing it shut the brunette up quickly. "You want to know why I'm staying here? Try this on for size, princess: I'm _tired_ of you, and you know why that is? It's because you're a selfish little brat. It's because you're an empty-headed little bimbo. And, perhaps most of all, it's because you're a sheep, who mindlessly follows whatever's expected of you. I thought that was what I wanted out of life, to be one of the crowd, to be well–liked and accepted, but I've realized that I can express my _own_ opinion in this world, and that's what I'm doing. I want to stay here, and that's what I'm going to do. Now, is that enough to shut you up, or do I have to use smaller words so you'll understand?"

Jessica was silent, glaring daggers at the young man. He himself was so riled-up that he was shaking. Frankie and Hannah, who had previously chosen to stay out of the fight, stepped in now.

"Uh, guys?" Frankie said, stepping in between the two. "We kinda have to pack. Whether or not Jimmy's staying, we're supposed to check out in fifteen minutes." Jimmy sighed, nodding, before turning to his own nearly packed bag.

"I'll see you guys to the airport," he muttered to Frankie, "but I was serious about what I said. I'm not leaving Britain, not yet anyway."

Jimmy didn't speak again for the rest of the trip back to London. He stared out the window the entire train ride, despite Frankie and Hannah's futile attempts to latch Jessica and him into conversation. Jessica was silent too, until they arrived at the gate (Jimmy, still having a ticket, was allowed past the security check).

"We're through," she growled at him before she stalked onto the plane. Hannah shrugged at him, though her eyes made it clear that she too was furious with Jimmy. He assumed that she had realized that everything he had said about Jessica was true about her too.

Frankie turned to say some final words to Jimmy as the flight attendant was checking his boarding pass.

"You're sure about this?" He asked, catching his best friend's eye. Jimmy looked down at his Birkenstocks (the only shoes he'd been able to stand wearing since the cliff that first afternoon), and nodded.

"I've never been more sure about anything in my life," he answered, completely sincere. "I'll call you whenever I end up getting back to San Fran."

Frankie caught Jimmy's chin in one hand, locking eyes with him for a few seconds before he turned to follow the girls onto the plane.

* * *

Hours later, Jimmy was walking down the streets of London. He had checked into a hotel and dropped off his bags, and now realized that he had nothing to do but wander. He was starting to get hungry; his body didn't feel it, but he could tell by the way that his mind was starting to wander. He kept thinking back to the fight with Jessica that morning; had he really meant everything he had said? He asked himself that question hundreds of times, and every time, the answer was yes. He knew that it had all been true, but he hadn't been aware he was feeling that strongly.

He was so lost in thought that he wasn't looking where he was going, and ran headlong into another young man, going the other direction on the sidewalk.

Jimmy's head snapped up, his mouth open to apologize, but to his surprise, no words came out. He'd have felt quite rude, if not for the fact that the other man was staring at him in the exact same fashion.

The other young man spoke first. "I'm terribly sorry," he said. "I was wrapped up in my book, and wasn't paying attention to where I was going."

Jimmy meant to insist that it was his fault for letting his mind wander, but no words of that kind would leave his mouth. The only thing his mind would focus on was the strange sense of familiarity he was getting from this apparent stranger. It was like the tree back in Dover had become a person. Suddenly, just like the tree back in Dover, words, a name, came out of his mouth.

"Sam," he whispered. He felt the words leave his lips, but the voice, the accent, didn't sound like his own.

The other man's eyes widened. "Mister Fr—" he began, but stopped mid-word. "Never mind," he muttered, running a hand through the short dirty-blond curls on his head. "It's impossible." Jimmy nodded slowly, doubting that he knew what the man was talking about.

"I'm Jimmy," he said, holding out a hand. "Jimmy Webb." The young man shook Jimmy's hand slowly; he seemed oddly reluctant to give his name.

"I'm… Sam," he said finally. "Sam Dickson." Sam's clear green eyes surveyed Jimmy carefully. "That was, er, a lucky guess. My name, I mean."

"Yeah," Jimmy said, nodding. "Lucky guess."

Both were silent for a few moments. "I'm sorry," Sam stated suddenly, "have we met before? You seem very familiar."

"I wanted to ask you the same question," Jimmy remarked. He was quite curious about this young man; something about him seemed to tell Jimmy that they were experiencing the same prickles of déjà vu. He wanted to know more, but suddenly his stomach was growling with hunger.

"I'm sorry if this is a bit forward," he said, "but I'm starving right now. Do you want to get something to eat?"

"That sounds lovely," Sam nodded, bending to pick up the book he had dropped when he and Jimmy had knocked heads.

Jimmy pulled a pocket guidebook to London out of the front pocket of his sweatshirt. It had been a gift from his parents for the trip, because it contained a list of all the best vegetarian restaurants in London.

"According to this," he said, "there's a good place a few blocks from here. That is, unless you know of somewhere."

"Oh, no," Sam responded, shaking his head. "I don't live around here. I just moved here from Edinburgh."

"Ah," Jimmy nodded. "Shall we then?"

* * *

Jimmy stared intensely at his food. They had arrived at the restaurant, a little Indian place, without problems, but once they had been seated and served their food, they found that there was an uneasy silence between them. Jimmy picked at his food, yearning to voice the questions that plagued his mind.

Sam, after having eaten a small amount of his chicken dish (Jimmy had assisted him in picking the mildest thing on the menu), had reopened his book, and had his nose buried in it at the table. Jimmy looked up from his tofu curry. The other man's eyes were watering from the spicy vapors coming from Jimmy's tofu, but he seemed engrossed by his book. Jimmy glanced at the title: _Tolkien's World: Paintings of Middle-Earth._ The name seemed familiar, but Jimmy couldn't place it. He had hoped food would clear his mind, but if anything, his thoughts were even more muddled than before.

"So," he said, a little louder than he had expected. "Er, what do you think of the food?"

"It's all right, I suppose," Sam replied, not looking up from his book. "I'm not much for foreign food."

Jimmy looked back down at his plate. His was nearly gone; this was some of his favorite food, and though he had never had chicken before (his parents had raised him vegetarian), he would think that it would have much more of a taste to it than tofu. He shrugged, again racking his brain for some way to make conversation.

Ten minutes later, the silence was starting to kill him. He drummed his fingers, the rhythmic noise steadily getting louder, but Sam continued to read his book as if nothing was happening.

"That's it," Jimmy blurted out, slamming a hand onto the table. Sam looked up, smiling pleasantly.

"I was waiting for the dam to burst," he remarked, setting his open book on the table. Jimmy made a face of frustrated defeat.

"Fine," he muttered. "I've got some questions."

"Okay, shoot."

"How?" Jimmy asked. "That's my first one. How do I know you? How do you know me? How did you agree to eat with someone who is, well, _should be_ a complete stranger?" He took a deep breath, ready to go off on another string of questions. "Where, that's my next one. Where do you get off sitting there so calmly, when I'm so curious I'm nearly exploding under the pressure? Where do I know you from, since it's impossible for me to know you from nowhere? And _where,_" he jabbed his finger at the painting on the open page of Sam's book, "do artists get this? I _never_ looked like that!"

Sam's eyes lit up as Jimmy's mouth fell open in shock. "T-t-third question," he stammered. "W-what. What the _hell_ am I talking about?"

"I knew it," Sam exclaimed, grinning like an idiot. "He said I'd know you when I saw you, but I wasn't totally sure it was you, until now!" Jimmy, though confused and a bit worried, was relieved that, for once, he didn't inexplicably understand what the blond man was talking about.

"I don't follow."

"Look!" Sam pointed back down at the painting. It was entitled "Galadriel's Mirror," by a man named Alan Lee. Below the picture, there was a short line of text.

"As guests in the Golden Wood, Sam and Frodo were allowed to look into Galadriel's mirror," Jimmy read aloud.

"See?" Sam said, a slight tone of excitement in his voice. "That's you, and that's me." He sat back, pushing the book toward Jimmy for closer inspection. "I know what you mean," he remarked. "It looks nothing like me either. We look too… I don't know, devious?"

"This is impossible," Jimmy said, shaking his head vigorously. "I'm a kid from California who just graduated high school. I've got a family, friends, a job! I can't be a…" He trailed off.

"He said you'd be skeptical, unbelieving," Sam said. "I was too, but that wore off right quick, once things started to fit together. You'll understand it all in time, I promise. He can explain it much better than I can."

"I'm sorry, 'he'?"

"Don't you remember?" Sam asked. Jimmy shook his head. "Oh, well, no matter. It'll come back to you in time, just like everything else."

"What 'everything else' are you referring to?"

"Everything," Sam replied. "The fact that you're here is enough. You knew me, knew who I was. I'm sure more has happened, things that you haven't told me about. You know your name now, don't you?"

"I told you my name when we met on the street," Jimmy said defensively. He knew what Sam was talking about, but refused to acknowledge it as real.

"That's not what I'm talking about," Sam smiled knowingly. He cleared his throat. "I feel a new introduction is in order," he went on, holding a hand out over the table. "I'm Sam. Samwise Gamgee. And you're—"

"Don't say it. _Don't say it._"

"—Frodo. Frodo Baggins."


	3. Bryce

**Three: Bryce**

"Can I get you anything, Mr. Maxwell?"

Bryce looked up from his laptop. "No thanks, Kate, I had dinner a couple of hours ago."

"Nothing?" The young girl smiled at him from the doorway of his room in the little bed and breakfast. "How about a cup of tea?"

"No thanks," Bryce replied. Kate shrugged, turning to walk down the hall. "Actually," he called after her, "a cup of tea would be lovely. Earl Grey"

"Anything else?"

"No. Well, perhaps a couple of biscuits for dipping. And some bread. Yes, some bread would be nice, with some cheese. Some vegetables, too. Yeah, some carrots, lettuce, cabbage. Potatoes too. And _mushrooms, _nice sautéed mushrooms. Hmm, some chicken might be nice. Or some fish. No, chicken. Roast chicken."

"Had dinner, did you?" Kate remarked with a grin, making Bryce blush.

"Yes," he admitted, smiling cheekily. "But that doesn't matter. That was dinner, and this is… supper. Two different things, you see." This, of course, was nonsense, both to him and to Kate, but she played along and went down to the kitchens. Bryce turned back to his computer, resting his fingers comfortably on the keys as he fought his case of writer's block. He had come to Buckland, Cambridgeshire, trying to put together a history of the area, only to find out it had no purpose; everyone he had interviewed, indeed, most people in town, were part of families that had lived in Buckland for generations, and thus knew the history quite well. There was no need for a book of history, because it would only have been useful to people who lived there, most of whom could tell the story of the town back to medieval times. He had then turned to fiction, but nothing was coming to him. After two weeks of sitting in front of his laptop with the intention of making up a story of his own, he had less than a page of writing.

About an hour later, Kate came back with a tray heaping with food, and Bryce hadn't hit a key. She set the tray on the desk next to the laptop, and Bryce pushed the computer aside, eager for the distraction from his own lack of progress. He ate hungrily, though a part of his mind wondered at this; he really had eaten only a few hours before.

"I'm glad to see you've got a healthy appetite again," Kate said, making Bryce jump in surprise; in his haste to eat, he had forgotten she was still standing there. "You haven't eaten much of anything since you arrived here."

"I've never been much of an eater," Bryce replied, noting the irony of saying this as he shoveled another forkful of chicken and mushrooms into his mouth.

"You never did explain why you came here," Kate said, dragging a chair from the opposite corner of the room and sitting down next to the desk.

"Yes I did," Bryce corrected, not looking away from the plate of mashed potatoes he was eating. "I came to write a book on the history of the area."

"Point taken," Kate assented, "but you never explained why you stayed. You can type nonsense on that laptop at home, but still you stay in Buckland."

Bryce sighed. "How old are you, Kate?" He asked after a pause. "Fourteen? Fifteen?"

"I turn eighteen next month, Mr. Maxwell."

"Really?" He said. "You'll be going off to a university soon, then?"

"Yes, actually. I was accepted to Exeter."

"Wow, that's quite an accomplishment."

"Thank you, Mr. Maxwell."

"What are you doing serving room service in a bed and breakfast, then?"

"I've worked here every summer since I was thirteen. My uncle owns it."

"Oh. Well, that makes sense."

"With all due respect, don't change the subject, Mr. Maxwell."

"Oh, right. There was a point to this when I started." He set down his fork (however reluctantly), and turned to meet eyes with the young woman. "You're about to leave home for school. This will be your first time living on your own, right?"

"Yes, it will be."

"It was mine too. I'm a sophomore at Columbia University in New York."

"Sir—"

"Anyone going to Exeter with you? Friends, boyfriend?"

"No."

"It was different for me," Bryce said. "I grew up in Colorado, and my girlfriend Anya and I were accepted to the same college. We had some problems, little things, but I always worked hard to make things work. Things were little rocky, but I thought they were getting better. Then, about six weeks ago, she told me she had been with someone else behind my back, and that we were over. She said I had a 'fear of abandonment', and that I was smothering her." He bit down on his lip, trying to quell the bitterness in his voice. "Sorry," he said finally. "I didn't mean to unload on you."

"Oh, it's no problem," Kate assured him, patting his arm awkwardly. "I asked. Besides, you haven't said anything about it, so it's natural for it to come out in a flood." Bryce smiled gratefully, picking up his fork again.

"It might do you some good to take a trip," she said, standing up. "You've been holed up in this little town for a month now. Go to Cambridge, catch a train. Maybe go over to France."

_France_, he thought. "Yeah," he murmured around a mouthful of bread and cheese. "That might be a good thing to do."

* * *

"_Mademoiselle de Maupin_," Bryce read off the spine of a book on the shelf before him. He had been in France for nearly a week, with little change to his disposition or his writer's block. He had taken to skulking around the most cramped, dusty bookstores he could find in each town he visited, using his broken memories of high school French class to get by. Now he was in Cherbourg, picking through the Classics section and considering going back to England. While a change of scenery had been nice for the first day or so, it hadn't helped much of anything. He was ready to go back to his little room in Buckland, sit at his desk, and stare at the screen of his laptop in peace.

Suddenly he jerked, waking up from where he had dozed off, still holding onto the novel. He hadn't been sleeping well, mostly because of a bizarre recurring dream. It had occurred back in England as well, but ever since his crossing of the Channel, it had intensified to the point that he was having it multiple times a night. He could never remember much, nothing but old men and fire, ringstones and smoke.

"Ai!" Bryce heard a shout from close by him, a split second before he found himself flat on his back. Looking up from his prone position, he saw that he had been bowled over by a book cart, over which a teenage boy was peering. "Merde," the boy swore under his breath before putting on an apologetic face. "Pardonnez-moi, monsieur," he said, pulling the cart back to help Bryce to his feet. "Je suis désolé. Je ne vous ai pas vu—"

"Pas de quoi," Bryce said awkwardly. In fact, it had hurt a lot, but it was easier to say it was no problem being run over by a cart than to try and express that to the boy.

"You're from the States," the boy said without any trace of a French accent.

Bryce blushed. "Is it that obvious?"

"No offense," the boy replied, flashing a crooked grin, "but your accent is abysmal."

"That bad?" Bryce asked, wincing. "I mean, I didn't _ace_ French or anything, but I thought I was halfway decent at it."

The boy laughed. "From here on, the only French you should worry about is 'parlez-vous anglais'," he replied. "You'll just make a fool of yourself otherwise."

"Maybe so," Bryce sighed. "After all, you don't seem to have a problem speaking English."

"Not that English is an uncommon language or anything, but I lived in Seattle until I was twelve."

"Oh." Bryce held out a hand to be shaken, the same hand the boy had used to pull him to his feet. "I'm Bryce. Bryce Maxwell."

"Je m'appelle Eric," the boy said, shaking Bryce's hand. "Eric St. Pierre."

The young men's hands lingered, as if both parties were reluctant to let go. Eric was still smiling crookedly; Bryce was doing his best to avoid the boy's eyes. He couldn't figure out why, but he felt oddly drawn to him in a way he had never felt before. It was an attraction, but not a romantic one, like his attraction to Anya, or indeed any girl. It was more of the distinct feeling that he _had _to learn more about Eric.

"Listen," Eric said suddenly, breaking through Bryce's train of thought. "You want to go get something to eat?"

Bryce looked at his watch. It was a little before ten in the morning. "I've already had breakfast," he said slowly.

"You've had one, yes," Eric grinned. "What about second breakfast?"

Bryce decided that, if asked, he would deny the fact that he had been considering going for 'second breakfast' only minutes before the cart collided with him. "Why not?"

Eric smiled, ducking his head out of the aisle to call out to the middle-aged woman behind the desk. "Benny, je vais sortir pour le deuxième petit déjeuner!" The woman nodded, smiling benignly as Bryce followed the boy out the door.

"Benny?" Bryce asked as the two ducked into a little café next door.

"Non," Eric said. "Pas 'Benny'. C'est 'Béné', un sobriquet pour 'Bénédicte'." The boy bit his lip. "Sorry, I tend to mix languages in conversation. It's an old habit."

"'Sokay," Bryce said. "I think I understood most of it."

"So, where'd you grow up?" Eric asked.

"Colorado," Bryce replied.

"With both your parents, or were they separated?"

"Just my mom," Bryce said. "My dad died in a car accident when I was six."

"Oh, wow," Eric's voice softened. "That must have been hard. I'm sorry."

"It's no big deal," Bryce shrugged. "He was the business type, wasn't around much anyway."

"Still, it must have affected you somehow."

"Not really. Mum, Nicole, and I got along fine."

"Sorry, Nicole?"

"My little sister."

"Oh, are you two close?"

"Close enough, I gue— you're holding my hand," Bryce said suddenly, looking pointedly down at the table, where Eric had taken one of Bryce's hands in his own, rubbing it slightly with his thumb.

"Yes, I am."

"Why?"

Eric stared blankly at him, before recognition dawned. "You're not… we're not… oh no." He let go of Bryce's hand and stood up abruptly. "I'm so sorry, I thought… never mind," he said, putting some money down on the table. "Get whatever you want, I just need to—"

"You asked me out on a date," Bryce said slowly, understanding Eric's rather quick reaction.

"Guilty," Eric winced, blushing a violent shade of red.

"You're… gay."

"And you're not," the boy said, smacking himself in the forehead. "I don't know what I was thinking, I'm really sorry. You stay here; I'm just going to go curl up in a corner and die of embarrassment."

"Wait," Bryce said, grabbing hold of Eric's hand. "I said yes, didn't I? Granted I'm straight, but that doesn't mean I don't want to talk." Eric stared at him skeptically for a moment; then a look appeared in his eyes, a sort of "what if" look that Bryce had trouble understanding.

"Okay," Eric said. "We'll talk."

"So," Bryce began. "You're… gay."

"Technically bisexual," Eric replied, "but if it's all the same, I'd rather not talk about that. I'm trying to forget what a fool I just made of myself."

"Sure, Eric."

"Actually," the boy said, "do you think you could call me 'Pip'?"

"What?" Bryce froze, looking up at the boy.

Eric, or rather, Pip, made no notice of Bryce's surprise. "I only use 'Eric' with people I think are cu— never mind. I'd like to think it makes me seem more mature somehow. Plus the French pronounce it 'Peep', which makes me sound like something you get in an Easter basket."

Bryce laughed hollowly, still a bit shaken, though he didn't know why.

"You okay?" Pip asked, but Bryce didn't respond. Thoughts were flying through his mind; images, sounds, smells, feelings he had never experienced were coming to him like old memories, except that he was sure they weren't that. He was swept up in a sea of confusion suddenly, as if a dam had broken. It was like having more than one person in his head; he barely heard Pip ask if he were okay again before he felt the last thread of consciousness break as he drowned in the chaos.

* * *

"Come back…"

The voice was vaguely familiar, but something seemed wrong. He couldn't put his finger on the problem, but something simply didn't feel right. He kept his eyes shut, the faint green sparkle of unconsciousness still dancing behind them.

"Come on, come back to me. You can do it. Come on, Merry, open your eyes."

"What?" He finally responded, opening his eyes a crack. He was lying on the floor, his body feeling suddenly heavy, cumbersome, and much too big. He couldn't see much around him; all he could focus on was the pair of concerned hazel eyes above him. The face wasn't especially recognizable, but the eyes, the eyes were so familiar, like seeing an old friend after years of separation. "Pip…" he said softly.

The face with the eyes broke into a smile. "I knew it," it said, breathing a sigh of relief. "I knew it couldn't be serious. They can't keep us apart for long, can they?"

"What are you talking about?" He said slowly.

"Merry, you know exactly what I'm talking about," the face said. "I know you do. I saw it back in the bookstore. You felt the same thing I did; why else would you have agreed to go for food with me? Of course, at that point I thought the weird feeling I had meant I thought you were cute, but once the, ahem, _incident_ occurred, everything clicked!" The eyes seemed a bit moist suddenly. "After all this time, we're back together."

His mind was working very slowly. "…Merry?" He said, still groggy; the sudden awkward sensation throughout his body muddled his speech.

"Hm?" The face said.

He struggled to sit up, but as soon as he tried, the sparkles that had just begun to leave his vision returned with a vengeance. He felt himself fall back toward the floor, but a pair of strong, slender arms caught him and gently placed his head in a more comfortable position.

"Here now," he could hear the face say, and he felt the cool kiss of water being dripped into his mouth. He was aware of a numb throbbing in his ears that made it hard for him to hear anything but the voice of the face with the eyes. "No, it's nothing serious. No, he'll be fine."

It was a moment or two before he felt strong enough to open his eyes again. The first thing he saw were those eyes, set in the unfamiliar face that was still above him; he appeared to have his head in the person's lap. The eyes shone with a mildly anxious look as they stared down at him.

"There," the face said. "I knew you'd pull through. You were always the strong one."

"What?" He said.

"I said you'd always been stronger than me, Merry."

"No," he murmured, working hard to move his lips. "'Merry'… Why do you keep calling me that?"

The face laughed softly. "Because that's your name, bien sûr."

"No, my name's…" he fought to remember, but indeed, after all the commotion, 'Merry' was the only name that came to mind. He bit his lip, refusing to admit the worries this brought forth.

"Fine, 'Bryce'," The face said (Bryce did his best to convince himself that he had known that all along). "Whatever fries your fish."

_Fish_, he thought. _Some fish would be quite good right now, actually— no, wait!_ "I don't understand," he said. "What… why… how…?"

"That's no matter right now," the face (Pip, he finally remembered) said comfortingly, helping him into a sitting position. "We'll talk about that later, when you're feeling a bit better. Let's just sit back at the table, and order some nice fried fish." Bryce felt his face curve into a wide smile to match Pip's.

* * *

"You're sure they're here?"

"Absolutely. I can feel it in my gut."

"Speaking of gut, I'm getting a bit peckish. Think we could stop for tea?"

"We'll stop for tea when we find them."

"How are you so sure we'll find them?"

"I just am."

"Exactly how do you plan to?"

"We'll recognize them, like we did each other, and if that doesn't work, we can just yell names until someone responds."

Merry sighed. It had been two weeks since he had passed out in the café in Cherbourg, during which he and Pip had rarely been separated. The longer they were together, the more bizarre moments they seemed to have. It hadn't taken long for the easygoing college student to accept what was going on, though he still found it strange how easily Pip had taken on this new set of memories. After all, _he_ had blacked out, while Pip had maintained enough composure to catch him when he fell out of his chair. Even now, Merry only had a shaky understanding of what had happened, while Pip seemed to not only have absorbed everything with an unusual amount of calm, but also seemed to be able to sense where the… others were.

The others. That concept was still sinking in. He knew that there were others, and that they would somehow recognize them, but exactly how and why they would was still a mystery.

Now they were in Paris; the closer they had gotten, the more finely-tuned Pip's sense of their companions' location seemed to be. Now they were in the Latin Quarter, leaning against a kiosk selling pashminas in an open-air market, regrouping. He watched Pippin closely; the younger boy was standing with his eyes shut, doing his best to be aware of those whom they were seeking. Merry did his best to focus on Pip; the young man seemed to believe in the power of good vibes, though Merry had trouble keeping his thoughts in line.

_Come on, now,_ he told himself, _focus. Focus for Pip. You can do it, Mer— no, Bryce. Bryce._

It was still happening. Ever since he had collapsed, he found that he was referring to himself, not as Bryce, but as Merry. It was unsettling, but the young man had learned to accept it, though did his best to correct himself when he noticed it.

_Mind's wandering again. Damn_.

From next to him, Pip sighed exasperatedly, falling back against the side of the kiosk. Merry knew his companion's body language enough now; the young man was upset that he had lost the trail. It was a common set of mannerisms; when it came to finding their comrades, Pip was easily annoyed.

In the last two weeks, Bryce-as-Merry had learned more about Pip than Bryce-as-Bryce had known about Anya after nearly three years. He was seventeen years old; his mother had been born in France, and moved to the States when she was twenty-one, where she had met his father. They divorced before he was born, and hadn't seen each other since. His father was apparently a successful businessman in Seattle, but Pip had never met him. He and his mother had stayed in Washington until they got news of his grandmother's failing health. Now they lived with the elderly woman; Pip went to school in Cherbourg, and worked part-time at the bookshop where they had met.

"_SAM!_" Pip shouted suddenly, jerking Merry out of his thoughts. "_SAMWISE GAMGEE!_" The comparatively petite boy was shouting with a surprising amount of power; his voice echoed around the narrow street, making everyone look at him, clearly startled.

"Yes?" A voice from behind them said calmly. Merry spun around to see a young man, not much older than himself, looking at them with earnest green eyes peeking out from beneath thick, curly blond bangs. He had an expectant look, as if he had been standing there waiting for them. Next to him was a younger-looking man, shorter, with shaggy hair that looked like it had been dyed black, but was fading back to brown. They wore matching tweed blazers and caps; the blond had tweed trousers, and a linen shirt and green waistcoat, while the dark-haired one opted for jeans and a black Beatles shirt.

"Is this them?" Merry muttered out of the side of his mouth, giving Pip a questioning look, but the younger man had stepped forward toward the other two. The blond man went forth as well, the two meeting in the middle while Merry and the dark-haired one hung back.

The two men stood roughly a foot from each other, each gazing into the other's eyes, as if sizing him up. Then, without warning, they grabbed one another into a tight hug.

Merry looked at the pair, then back at the dark-haired young man, and shoved his hands back into his striped linen trousers.

"Are we supposed to hug?" The other man said, adjusting his cap and staring down at his worn leather Birkenstocks. Merry shrugged.

The two men broke out of the hug, both smiling giddily. The blond man looked from his companion to Merry and back again, chuckling. "Sorry," he said to Merry through a thick Scottish brogue. "That was a bit rude of me. I'm Sam, and that there's Mister Frodo."

"_Jimmy,_" the other one said.

Pip smiled knowingly. "I'm Pippin," he grinned, "and he's Merry."

"Or… Bryce," Merry said slowly. "Not that it matters either way to me." Sam's smile seemed to widen, while Frodo/Jimmy was staring as if he couldn't believe that wouldn't matter.

"How'd you know we'd be here?" Merry asked.

"Didn't, actually," Sam replied. "We were just stopping at the market for a nippa summat to eat before we catch the train east." He pointed to a crêpe kiosk down the way. "We were on our way there when you shouted. How'd _you_ know is a better question."

"I'm psychic," Pip said quite matter-of-factly.

"Really, now?"

"Oui," he answered, nodding. "And the funniest thing is, I never knew about it until a couple of days ago. I just suddenly knew: Paris, then Latin Quarter once we got here."

"Well, en't that interesting?" Sam remarked with a knowing glint in his eye that made Merry suspect he knew more than he was saying.

"You said you were heading east?" Merry said, changing the subject. Sam nodded.

"Prague," he and Pip said in unison. All three other men looked to Pip, surprised. The teen smirked. "Psychic," he said.

"Indeed," Sam sighed.

**

* * *

Author's Note: Thanks to the friends (and enemies ;) ) whose names I'm using in the story. More on that in my Fanfiction Livejournal. As usual, I highly suggest you check it out; when I remember to update it, I give little insights and previews to my stories.**

Reviews are always loved and cherished (I got more on my last update than I ever have at one time!) Thanks to Laseri, avocado75, Leap, Burzog Gurthiel, and Elessar-Lover for reviewing the last two chapters.

Next time: We see a decidedly angstier look at the last ten thousand years through the eyes of perhaps the most changed of the Fellowship. I love writing angst; this should be fun.

Namaste!


	4. Leo

**Author's Note:** I'm sorry for such a long time in between updates. I really did mean to get this chapter posted in a timely manner, but in early November, a friend of mine was killed in a car accident. I went to elementary school with her, and she and I were in choir together; the choir sang a song at her funeral in which I had a solo. It went well, but I hope it's understandable when I say that I really didn't have much of a heart to write. Now then, on to the chapter.

**Four: Leo**

It had been nearly ten thousand years since he had set foot on the ground of his homeland. He had left on a boat, hand in hand with a dear friend, eyes on the horizon, both anticipating a new life with old friends long gone. They watched for any sign of land, eagerly awaiting a joyous reunion, one to wash away all the pain and age from their bodies and souls.

Imagine their surprise when they finally reached the shores of the Blessed Realm, only to discover that nearly all of their dear friends had been dead and gone for nearly a century. Imagine their shock upon realizing that all their dreams of rest in paradise were a thin illusion.

Damn the Elves and their vague, ambiguous ways. He had arrived expecting a home exactly as it had been described to him, and the lesson of its true nature was entirely too late. It was such an unwelcome jolt that even he, an Elf himself, was consumed in rage. Elves die in battle or in heartbreak; lands free from war or sorrow are thus the Undying Lands. If only he had known that before arriving; he would never have allowed himself, or Gimli, that letdown.

Of course Gandalf had known; the wizard had a talent for revealing his knowledge too late to be of any use, so it seemed. It was like an arrow to his heart to realize that a being he had trusted, would have trusted with his life, had left out that tiny little detail that would have saved him from so much pain and anguish.

But he lived on. He was determined to survive the anger, the bitterness he still felt in the depths of his heart. He kept himself alive through grief and rage, through pain and brief moments of pleasure, through the outrage when ships began arriving once more, this time carrying men of greed and violence to their pristine shores. He survived when the rest of his people were slaughtered, pushed aside into dry, parched land. He carried on, blended in, became a part of society, never staying anywhere long, never becoming too attached to those he met. He had continued this way for nearly three hundred years, watching times change and men spread across the continent, and never looked back.

Now he stood a crowded line in front of a nightclub, staring off into space and sucking on a cigarette. Anyone who had known him all those years ago, before… _before_, would scarcely recognize him. The hair that had once hung around his shoulders in warrior-style braids was shorn, spiked, and bleached white, the tips green and gold in a sort of halfhearted homage to his home. Gone were the elegant, lightweight clothes that befit an Elf of high standing; in their place were old, torn jeans and a beat-up motorcycle jacket that made him look more like Sid Vicious, bassist of the Sex Pistols, than Legolas, prince of Mirkwood.

"Leo," a voice from behind him said suddenly. He turned to see a nondescript young man who looked to be in his mid-twenties. It was Ray, a guy with whom he had maintained the guise of friendship for nearly a year. "Man, can I bum a cig?" Ray said. Legolas shrugged, offering the man the pack of Marlboros from the inside pocket of the Elf's leather jacket.

No sooner had he put the pack back than the last of his own cigarette was plucked from his mouth by the girl on his arm. He looked down at the short young woman, whose slick black cherry lips smiled demurely around his cigarette. Under all the layers of cheap makeup, he was sure that she was almost pretty, but to attempt to wash all that paint off was to sign on for an archaeological dig. Her maroon hair looked hard and dangerously sharp under the fluorescent lights in front of the club. The shellacked nails and spindly stilettos were enough to be deadly weapons as she plucked the used cigarette butt from between her lips and ground it beneath one pointy toe. Her name, as she had introduced herself to him a month ago, was Cindra, but Legolas was sure that she had given that to herself. He guessed her parents were the normal sort, the sort who would have named their daughter Linda, or Patty, or Cynthia. She had that bitterness around her that suggested an all-too-perfect childhood; one she was trying to escape. It was that aura of rancor that had attracted him to her; that, and she looked like a pretty good lay.

_When did I become so cynical?_ He laughed hollowly as he lit up another cigarette. He had never really gotten over certain habits of his former life; even now he'd occasionally get the itch in his hands to hold a bow, but he had learned to disguise it as a cigarette craving. Being an Elf, he was free from worries about the health risks of smoking, or the worries about addiction. He simply enjoyed the feeling of inhaling death, feeling that dark rasp of smoke in the back of his throat. It made him feel alive in a way that few things did; in fact, those few things had led to a long faux-addiction to drugs in the seventies and eighties. The sensation of knowing that if he repeated this action enough, he may not survive; it was a thrill, a thrill that quickly died when he realized exactly how much of the action it would take to even injure him, much less be fatal.

Fatal. Such a funny word, and clearly coined by man. Only to them was death truly a part of fate anymore. The few of his kind left had the opportunity to choose whether or not to die. Many had and did, granted, but it was still a choice. Not destiny, not unavoidable.

It had been unavoidable for his friends. He had heard firsthand accounts from others when he first arrived. No one he had spoken with was sure if the so-called "Undying Lands" had always been a relative term, or if the land had at some point crossed through the mists of magic and time, like the fabled Isle of Avalon from Arthurian legend. Besides, time wasn't much an issue there. No one paid much attention, because there was no need. All anyone knew was that the few mortal residents of the land began to die.

Bilbo had been first, but that wasn't surprising. He could have very well chosen to die himself; he was quite old, and of the mind that death was the next great adventure. Frodo apparently went at a ripe old age; he spent the last few years of his life constantly staring out over the water. When asked, he simply said he was waiting for Sam. Sam did eventually come; the sad part was that Frodo died only a few weeks, maybe a month before. Legolas had been told it was a rather jarring shock for the old hobbit; he didn't last long afterwards. That was, of course, long before Legolas arrived, but he couldn't help but think that he should have been there for the poor thing.

"Dude!" Ray said suddenly, snapping Legolas out of his thoughts of the past. "What, are your thoughts in Europe already?" The young man seemed to find it funny, but Legolas failed to see the humor. Gandalf had suddenly started writing to him a month before, after years of silence. He didn't totally understand some of what the old man had been saying, only that he was needed for some reason or another. He had received word of a plane ticket waiting for him at LAX, where he was headed the next morning, after one last night in an LA nightclub.

Out of the corner of his eye he saw Cindra reach up to take a drag of his cigarette again. He deftly intercepted her hand with his pack of cigarettes. Shrugging, she took one, lighting it with the chrome Zippo lighter she took out of the pocket of his jeans. Since day one, she had displayed an odd fascination with stealing is things. Even now, she was wearing a shirt of his, one she had hacked into with a pair of scissors until it was a tiny, fringed midriff-shirt. In all truth, he was glad that within twenty-four hours he wouldn't see her again.

The long line moved forward a few steps, then a few more, slowly taking him toward the bright sign above the entrance to the club. It read "The Goldmine," but Legolas refused to acknowledge the reflection of his thoughts. He had had enough with dwarves and gold.

He didn't notice that the line had stopped, just kept walking forward, lost in his thoughts of the past and what was to come, when a rather forceful hand on his chest stopped him in his tracks.

"Hold it right there, buddy," a gruff Southern-accented voice said. "You're not gettin' in anytime soon unless your name's on the list."

"Leo Wood," Legolas said aloofly. He looked up at the rather large face of the bouncer, and froze. _Those eyes_, he thought. _No, it's impossible. But…_ his mind kept saying no, but something, a force throughout his body, was telling him yes.

"Gimli," he whispered.

"What?" The bouncer said, seemingly uncomprehending, but something behind his eyes changed slightly, as if in recognition.

"Do you remember me?" Legolas asked hesitantly.

"Let me set you straight," the bouncer said dismissively. "We're _not_ old high school buddies, we're _not_ distant relatives, and I do not nor have I ever owed you money _or _a favor."

"Fine," Legolas sighed, and searched his mind for words of a language, two languages, he hadn't spoken in thousands of years.

"Yeni ve duin kheledul kele, a kirelmet ve baruk-dûr."

"…What did you say?" The bouncer said, his face a mixture of fear and hesitant recollection.

"Diro a ele, mellon nîn."

The man gaped at him. Leo stood back with a look of self-satisfaction on his face. Fumbling, the bouncer reached for the walkie-talkie on his belt.

"J-Jack," he stuttered into the hunk of black plastic, "I'm going on my break. Can you cover for me?"

After an affirmative response on the other end of the walkie-talkie, Leo shook Cindra off his arm and followed the heavily muscled man into the club.

"Hey, at least get usin!" Ray yelled after him, but Legolas ignored him. The two made their way into the smoky club, sitting down at a small table in a dark corner, where they could more easily disregard the pounding base from the cheap, shallow power-pop blaring from the speakers.

"So—" the bouncer began.

"I hate the word 'so'," Legolas stated in a flat tone. "It indicates small talk, and I've had to deal with enough small talk in my life to kill a man."

"Okay," the man said slowly. "I'm Geoff, Geoffrey Scott."

"Legolas," the elf replied evenly. "Are you going or not?"

Geoff looked confused. "Wait, rewind," he said. "You're _who?_"

"You heard me."

"I did, but I'm going to pretend I didn't."

"Don't act like you don't already know," Legolas rolled his eyes. "The 'amazed and unbelieving' thing gets old fast. Just answer the question, are you going or aren't you?"

"Going where?"

"I said to cut the routine," Legolas said, clearly exasperated. "There's no need to play stupid games; no one can hear you over this techno-shit but me."

"Listen," Geoff said, clearly doing his best to seem apologetic. "I'm sorry, but I honestly don't know what you're talking about. All I know is that you tried to pull a runner, and when I stopped you, you started talking in gibberish, except it was gibberish I _knew._" The man sighed, putting his head in his hands. "I think I'm going insane, but then part of me says that I should talk to you, so here I am."

Legolas was surprised, but kept his face a carefully composed mask of stoicism. "So you didn't get a letter?"

"Nope."

"And you… have no idea who or what I am?"

"Excuse me, _what_ you are?"

"Er, never mind."

They sat in silence for some time. Geoff kept getting a look on his face as if he was about to commence in the small talk Legolas had already professed to hate. In fact, the agony of just sitting there with nothing between them but the pounding bass of the music was so maddening, the elf actually considered small talk a much-needed escape. He opened his mouth to ask some mundane question (the nature of which he didn't yet know), when a scream sounded out from a table across the room. Most would not be able to see what had caused the disturbance from across the dark smoky club, but Legolas' deft Elf eyes easily spotted the reason for all the commotion: a strong, mean-looking young man was standing, holding a sharp knife to the throat of another club-goer.

Both Legolas and Geoff stood up; Legolas pointed out the knife-wielder to Geoff, who moved forward briskly. The heavily muscled man delivered a strong punch to the glass case on the wall, retrieving the fire axe from within. Swinging it with an apparent ease that was clearly not his own, but wasn't exactly a problem at the moment, he approached the man with the knife.

"Come on now, laddie," Geoff said, his voice lower and gruffer than it had been only moments before. That was not the voice of any Man, Legolas thought, much less this Man. No sort of people sounded like that, except one.

In that moment, a change seemed to overcome Geoff. He was no longer the bouncer that had stopped Legolas in front of the club; no, that man had neither the strength of character nor the foolish pride of the creature before them now.

The young man with the knife did not flinch when Geoff approached, but a hint of fear was definitely present in his eyes. "You wouldn't," he sneered, his bravado faltering ever-so-slightly.

"How can you be so sure?" Geoff smiled confidently, swinging the axe back and forth expertly (all people near him had backed away far before). "I mean, we've never met before, have we? I don't know you, you don't know me, and you _certainly_ don't know what I'm capable of, now do you?"

"Don't lay in on too thick, mellon nîn," Legolas said to himself. "Wouldn't want to appear too—" He broke off as Geoff swung the axe suddenly, stopping it in midair, mere inches from the side of the other man's neck. "—arrogant," the Elf sighed.

The man with the knife whimpered, dropping his hostage and surrendering to the police officers that had arrived. Geoff crossed his arms over his chest, clearly pleased. Two of the officers stepped forward to speak with Geoff, but a short, stout man made it to him first.

"Scott!" The man shouted. "What the hell do you think you're doing, pulling a stunt like that?"

Geoff looked down at the pudgy little man with a look on his face so condescendingly arrogant, so utterly Dwarvish, that it brought something akin to a smile to Legolas' face. "Well," he said, his Southern accent returning with a vengeance, "Ah do believe ah just broke up a hostage situation, Mr. Jackson."

"You were harassing _my_ customers," Jackson sneered. "If you'd hurt a hair on that guy's head, _I'd _be the one getting my ass sued off!"

Geoff stared at the man with one eyebrow raised. "You think you'd be any better off if he'd hurt that lady?"

"That's it," Jackson glowered. "Get out, I'm sick and tired of your face. Consider yourself fired."

"Ah've been waitin' for you to say that since ah got the job," Geoff scoffed. "Just pop mah last paycheck in the mail; ah don' wanna hafta come back."

Jackson started raving again, but Geoff turned away, making his way back to the table where Legolas stood.

"Master Elf," he said, the Dwarvish gruffness back in his voice. "I do believe I know what you were talking about now."

* * *

"Hi, we'd like to check our bags." 

The woman looked up from behind her desk at the airport. "Certainly sir, if I could please see some identification."

Legolas nodded, sliding his California driver's license and US passport across the shellacked surface.

"Ah, yes," the woman said, typing his name into the computer. "Wood, Mr. Leonard M. Business class, Flight 715 to New York, and according to your itinerary, transfer to Flight 179 to Prague."

"Yes," Legolas replied, hoisting his luggage onto the platform next to her. "And if possible, we'd like to purchase an additional ticket for each of the two flights, if that's possible."

"Certainly," she said, typing rapidly. "Will this third passenger be flying first class, business, or coach?"

"Business," sighed Legolas idly, before suddenly holding his hand out to stop her. "Wait, we only want one additional ticket."

"Oh, I'm sorry," the woman said. "I misunderstood. Are you asking to buy a third ticket just to New York, from New York to Prague, or on a direct flight from here to Prague?"

"I don't _want_ a third ticket," Legolas said firmly, clearly a bit exasperated. "I want one, _one_, additional ticket, making a grand total of _two _tickets."

The lady looked confused. "But sir," she protested. "According to your itinerary, there were two tickets purchased with the same credit card already. One is accredited to you, and the other is for a Mr. Geoffrey Scott."

Legolas and Geoff looked at each other, their faces wearing matching looks of surprise.

"Mithrandir," the Elf sighed. "Always one step ahead."

"Is there a problem, sir?" The woman behind the desk said, clearly confused.

"No, no problem," Geoff assured her. "Just a miscommunication between travelers." He handed her his passport and hefted his own duffel bag onto the platform.

The two finished their check-in as quickly and easily as possible, to avoid further confusion of the innocent airport worker. They didn't talk much as they went through security, or when they waited in line for lukewarm black coffee from the Dunkin' Donuts near their gate; indeed, neither said a word to the other until the plane took off. It wasn't an awkward silence; they both simply knew that nothing needed to be said. Despite Geoff's rather recent reawakening, he remembered that they hadn't done much unnecessary talking in their first lifetime together either. But that didn't stop him from asking Legolas a question that had been on his mind since the woman at the airline desk had said his name.

"How do you suppose Gandalf knew you and I were going to meet?"

Legolas looked over at Geoff, his eyes faintly glimmering with that sort of 'what an obvious question' look. "Magic. Wizard, remember?"

"Oh, yeah," Geoff said, shrugging. "That does make sense, doesn't it?"

They sat in silence for a while longer. Geoff sipped at the gin and tonic he'd ordered, a faint smile dancing across his deceptively gruff features. Legolas watched him for a while, before sitting back and watching the vapid teen comedy that was the in-flight movie.

"Where do you suppose I could find a quality axe?" Geoff asked suddenly.

"Hm?" Legolas pulled off one of his headset earphones. Geoff repeated his question. "Now how am I supposed to know that?" The Elf rolled his eyes.

"I don't know," Geoff shrugged. "I assumed I could go about looking for one wherever you got your bow. Or did you make your bow from scratch?"

"Don't have one," Legolas replied coolly.

"What?"

"I don't have one," he repeated. "I haven't had a bow since we left Ithilien."

"Really?" Geoff scratched his head. "Now, I thought I would have remembered something like that. I mean, I didn't die so terribly soon after we reached the Undy… the shore, did I?"

The matter-of-factness in Geoffrey's tone struck Legolas quite hard. Considering that the man was talking about a death, his _own_ death, so calmly knocked the Elf off balance, especially since it was a death Legolas himself was still not over.

"You seem to be taking it well," he remarked evenly.

"Taking what well?"

"This. All of this. Not since the nightclub have you made any attempts at denial. It seems a bit… I don't know, unnatural."

Geoff grinned. "This is coming from the Elf who expected me to instantly know everything about, not only my Dwarvish past, but this new expedition?"

Legolas rolled his eyes.

"You do that too much," Geoff said, cocking his head to the side thoughtfully.

"Do what too much?"

"Roll your eyes. It's like you're trying for some kind of detached, wise, 'the world bores me' cool, when in fact it makes you look pompous and stupid."

Legolas stared at Geoff with a look of both surprise and annoyance. "Back to the topic. How are you handling all this so well?"

Geoff shrugged. "I don't really know," he said. "It just felt right, I suppose. I don't have any connections; parents dead years ago, no wife, girlfriend, or kids, and what few friends I have don't care about much more than their Harleys or their record collections. When the whole incident happened in the club, everything clicked in my head, if you will. Part of me felt like, this is what I've been looking for, this is why I don't have anything real, so why fight it? After that, everything, memories, mannerisms, just started to appear." He sighed calmly. "The only thing I really think I'll miss during our little excursion is my motorcycle, and even that's just a silly sentimental thing."

"You ride a motorcycle?" Legolas looked at him skeptically. "Somehow I saw you as more likely to spend your free time in Napa County, swilling a glass of red wine and giving free psychiatric advice to anyone who will listen."

"Don't use dry humor to offhandedly insult those around you," Geoff remarked. "All it does is push people away."

"This is what I'm talking about," Legolas grumbled.

"Can we end this conversation?" Geoff asked. "I did want to learn how you've been since last I saw you, but now I'm not sure I want to know, and I'm finding I quite preferred the silence." With that, he shut his eyes and put his headset on.

Legolas sighed. He had hoped that, with seeing Gimli again after all this time, things would immediately go back to the way they had been, but all that had happened since meeting Geoffrey just showed the Elf how much he himself had changed. He frowned, turning back to the movie just in time to see the overly predictable kiss between the unpopular-pretty-girl and the sensitive-popular-jock just before the credits began to roll.

"What a happy coincidence," Legolas muttered. "They end the movie right before she finds out he's actually gay." He couldn't be sure, but he swore he heard a soft, almost-silent giggle from Geoff.

* * *

"Come on," Legolas called over his shoulder as he sprinted for the gate. "We're going to miss the flight!" 

"No we're not," Geoff replied, stopping to buy a muffin from the Starbucks kiosk. "You set your watch on Prague time already. We have six hours."

The Elf stopped running and joined Geoff in line, blushing furiously.

"What do you know," Geoff grinned. "Elves aren't infallible."

Legolas gave Geoff a look that clearly said 'shut up'; upon the word 'Elf', others in line had turned to stare at the two. Geoff smiled awkwardly, now as red as Legolas had been.

"Honestly, who has a six hour layover in New York City?" Legolas muttered.

"People who fly cheap," Geoff offered. "Or people hoping to meet up with others."

"Others like who?" Legolas asked. Geoff elbowed him, and pointed to the just-barely-visible baggage check. Two men were at the desk; one was conversion with the airline employee, while the other struggled to shut his bag. Legolas' keen Elf eyes helped greatly, but even Geoff could tell that the bulky object that wouldn't fit in the bag was a broadsword. The Elf gasped.

Eventually the sword did fit into the bag. It took a while for the pair of men to make it through the security checkpoint, but during that time Geoff and Legolas got their muffins. They made it back out to the common walkway just as the two men did. Legolas stopped the one who'd been struggling with the bag by tapping him on the shoulder. The man turned, only to be hugged by the Elf, who then bent down on one knee before him.

"My king," he said, smiling ominously. "It's been a long time."

The man stared at Legolas awkwardly. "I think you're looking for my friend," he murmured, turning to look after the other man. "Yo, Mantovani! J-Man, get over here!" The other man headed over to them, standing between his friend and the laughing man that was Geoff. "This is the guy I think you're looking for, man," the first man said.

"Barry, what's this all about?" Asked the second man.

"I present to you Julian Mantovani."

Legolas looked up at this man, Julian. He had presented himself to the other one, Barry, acting on blind luck, but now, seeing Julian, there was no doubt. Within those unfamiliar eyes lived the soul of an old friend.

"Aragorn," he whispered.

**

* * *

Author's Note:** Sorry it took so long, as usual! Thanks to my reviewers, without whom I wouldn't have the motivation to keep writing. 

In the next chapter, we look at this final pair of lost souls, and the Fellowship comes together for the first time!

Merry Christmas, Happy (belated) Chanukah, Happy Kwanzaa, Blessed Yule, and everything else I forgot!

Love and happy thoughts to you all, and Namaste.


	5. Julian

**Author's Note:** I warn you now, there's a bit of strong language in this chapter. Nothing earth-shattering, just a word or two.

**Five: Julian**

The world vanished.

So caught up was he in this fierce bout of passion, of heat, of raw desire, that he found that he could not see straight. His senses were all at once numb and sparked alive, almost overloaded.

She filled his entire being. He felt her, tasted her, inhaled her, devoured her, and was in turn devoured. She smelled like cigarettes and Nag Champa, like apples and wine. Her aroma was heady, mingling with his own scent of marijuana and soap.

They moved as one, melting together like drops of water. Nothing mattered, nothing existed but the two of them. He wasn't aware that he was speaking until the words were out of his mouth and in his ears.

"Mela le, a Vanatuilótë!"

She froze beneath him. "My name is Suzanne," she said, slowly and coldly.

He stared at her blankly. "I know that," he said, confused.

"You just called me 'Mel,' or 'Melly,' or something!" She angrily pushed his lithe form off her and began hurrying around the room, picking up pieces of her discarded clothing.

"What? No," he said as realization dawned on him. "No no no no no no no—"

"Save it, Julian," Suzanne glowered. "Who is she?"

"'She' isn't anyone," Julian sighed, "because 'she' doesn't exist."

"Stop playing games," Suzanne turned to him, livid. "I should have known. We never see each other anymore, 'cause you're always 'training with Barry."

"I _have _been training with Barry," Julian protested. "Come on, you know the Renaissance Faire is only a few weeks away!"

"Bull," she sneered. "You've been playing around with some girl on the side!"

"Come on, Barry's my best friend. Ask _him_ if we've been training all the time."

"I can't," Suzanne said. "Because in all the time you and I have been together, I've only met him a few times. If he's such a good friend of yours, why haven't I met him more than that in the last six months?"

"Because…" Julian trailed off, unable to answer, because part of him honestly didn't know.

Suzanne glared at him, pulling her vintage sequined party dress back over her creamy shoulders. "I can't deal with this," she sighed, biting her lip. "I can't deal with _you_." She opened the door, taking her purse and velour blazer from their hook by the door to his apartment. "I'm sick of your games, Julian Mantovani. Call me when you're… when you've… You know what?" She turned on one heel and headed out the door. "Don't call me."

Julian didn't move for a long time after she shut the door behind her. He simply lay on top of the tangle of Egyptian cotton sheets and goose-down duvet. Most nights in his cozy little New York apartment were chilly, but the warm air of a typical night in July let him lay there in relative comfort while he mulled over the last few moments in his mind.

Things had been going so well. Why did he have to open his stupid mouth? He'd meant to be romantic, whisper a soft "I love you" into her ear.

It was his own fault for losing his hold. Every time he let his mind go just a little bit, gibberish, strange words started to infiltrate his speech, even his thoughts. He fought to keep focus, to prevent this unfamiliar language from pervading his mind.

Even now, as his mind wandered over such occurrences in the last few weeks, the words crept into his head. Shaking away such confusing ideas, he rolled over and plucked his cell phone from the bedside table. Pressing down the number 7, he sat up, holding the phone so close to his ear that it scratched against his tiny diamond stud.

"City Morgue."

"Very funny, Barry," Julian sighed.

"Sorry," said the voice on the other end of the line. "What is it now, two in the morning? I have to be careful, scare off the freaks who might be calling this time of night."

"You have caller ID, moron. You knew it was me."

"Like I said, freaks call me this time of night."

Julian rolled his eyes good-naturedly.

"So what's a pretty girl like you doing on a phone line like this?" Asked Barry.

"She left," Julian sighed.

"Dude, that sucks. What happened?"

"I'll explain everything later. Open up the training room, I'm coming over."

"Since when do I take orders from you?" Julian swore he could hear Barry smirk. "I could have a girl over for all you know."

"Except that you don't."

"Yeah, but what if I did?"

"You don't."

"But what if I did?"

"You _don't._"

"But what if I did?" Barry whispered dramatically.

"Then I'd set up camp in your guest room until she left, and _then_ I'd make you open up the training room."

"Fair enough," conceded Barry.

"I may as well live in your guest room anyway," Julian sighed. "I stay in there enough as it is."

"Yeah, but then you'd get in my way all the time."

"'Get in your way'? You have a floor of the building to yourself!"

"Hey, I don't see you complaining when we use the training room!"

"Fuck you, rich boy."

"Language," Barry clucked. "Someone's been watching _Trainspotting_ too much lately."

"Quiet, ya doss wanker."

"Wow… you _really_ need to work on your Scottish accent."

"Bite me."

Barry laughed. "So get over here, Manto."

"Hoobastank."

* * *

A five-minute cab ride later, Julian pressed the buzzer to Barry's apartment. 

"Excuse me," said the voice that answered. "Do you have an appointment?"

"Barry, it's too early for me to think anything's funny. Buzz me in."

"Fine, you're no fun," said Barry as the building's front door unlocked. Crossing the deserted lobby of the apartment building, Julian stepped into the elevator and pressed in the button for the fourth floor. As usual, it didn't light up; Julian didn't know whom, but someone long before Barry's residence here had broken the button. Julian personally liked it that way. In such a fancy Manhattan apartment building, the little imperfection was a familiar quirk.

Once the elevator reached Barry's floor, Julian walked the eight feet that spanned between it and Barry's front door. Julian knocked out 'Shave-and-a-Haircut', and bobbed his head to the song stuck in his head as Barry flung the door open.

"Julian, old bean! How _are _you?" The young man grinned, brandishing the cigarette holder he held between two fingers.

'Old Bean' was not amused. "For the love of God, _why_ are you so happy today?" He grumbled as he threw himself onto a sofa.

"My stock went _way_ up today," Barry beamed. "Like private island high."

"I'm surprised you don't already _have_ a private island," Julian remarked. "You have more than enough."

"You'd be surprised how expensive islands are."

"Don't tell me you've checked!"

Barry shook his head, grinning. "If only Dad could see me now," he sighed.

"He can," said Julian. "It's not like he's dead or anything."

"Yeah, but he may as well be. Did you know we haven't talked in over a year and a half?"

"Wow, has it really been that long?" Asked Julian.

"Yup," replied Barry. "Not since I told him I didn't want an MBA after all."

"You mean he's really still mad about that?"

"You don't know Daniel Grayson." Barry looked at the floor, his jubilance suddenly subdued.

Julian sat up. "He should talk," he said indignantly to his friend. "Didn't he make all _his_ money as a bohemian artist or something?"

Barry nodded. "And yet he doesn't want me to join the Peace Corps, because it's not a 'lucrative career decision."

Julian was incredulous. "Like you haven't made enough with your stock investments to keep you more than comfortable for the rest of your life?"

"I don't know," Barry rolled his eyes. "Less talk, more fight."

"Good plan."

"Foil or broadsword?"

"Foil, _then _broadsword. I want to get my heart pumping." The two men stood, and crossed the hall to the other half of the floor, the training room.

Barry had not been the owner who converted the floor into one residence. He had bought it from one of his father's wealthy artist friends back when he was at college. They were entering what used to be a spacious workshop and studio, but Barry had gotten it professionally altered to become a state-of-the-art training room for his and Julian's athletic passion: fencing. That had been four years ago, when the best friends had been naïve twenty-one year olds, heirs to a pair of sizeable fortunes, out on their own for the first time. They had since expanded their horizons, and not just by picking up broadswords as well as fencing foils. Julian had all but renounced his family's money, choosing instead to make his own way in the world as a freelance photographer. Barry, while keeping a substantial income through stock investment, had left business school in order to find a more fulfilling calling; not having found enough satisfaction with Habitat for Humanity, Greenpeace, or the ASPCA, his latest plan was to join the Peace Corps. Julian admired his friend's intentions, but sometimes it seemed as if Barry were doing this more out of a desire to defy his father than one to actually make the world a better place.

The two men suited up. Barry slipped a CD entitled "Julian and Barry's Bitchin' Training Mix" into the stereo system built into the wall, before stepping up to face his opponent.

"I've been waiting for you, Obi-Wan," Barry said in a deep voice. "We meet again, at last. The circle is now complete. When I met you I was but the learner. Now, _I_ am the master."

"Only a master of evil, Darth," Julian remarked, grinning uncontrollably underneath his mask. They crossed blades, and the fight began. Both were agile, and quick with their swords, but they were evenly matched.

"The Force is strong with this one," Barry managed to say about ten minutes in, but such smart comments broke one's concentration and took too much energy. They went back and forth for a long time, though neither was keeping track. Finally both were exhausted; they pulled up their masks and sat down on a padded bench, downing bottles of water.

"So," gasped Barry, clearly out of breath. "Why'd Suzanne leave early? I thought you had a big night planned."

"I did," Julian admitted, opening a second water bottle from the refrigerator built into the wall, "but things got a little… awkward."

"What happened?" Asked Barry, giving Julian a look.

"I said… something." Julian blushed furiously as he spoke, staring at the floor.

"Oh no," groaned Barry. "No way, man. You've got to stop speaking in tongues. You might think it's cool and mysterious, but it's really just kinda creepy."

"I told you, I can't help it," sighed Julian, brushing back a few sweat-soaked strands of his long, dark hair with one hand. "Besides, it gets worse."

"What?"

"I said it while we were… you know…"

"Oh my _God_," Barry choked, laughing so hard he fell over on the bench. "No way, Manto. No bleeding way!"

"See," Julian remarked, blushing again, "I'd have been fine if _she'd_ started to laugh. She thought I'd said some other girl's name."

"Oh, man," grinned Barry. "That sucks, I'm sorry." He lit up a cigarette and offered one to Julian, who declined.

"Nah, man, I'm quitting."

Barry looked impressed. "Everything, or just cigarettes?"

"Everything," said Julian.

"Really? 'Cause the smell on your jacket when you came in suggests otherwise."

"I haven't been at it for long, that's all."

"How long is 'not long'?"

"Since about ten minutes before I called you, just after she left."

"That's not quitting," remarked Barry.

"Yes, it is," Julian shot back. "I really want to stick to it this time. Suzanne was a big 'anti-anti-smoker,' so since we're breaking up, it's a good time to make a fresh start."

"And what happens after the fight's over and you two make up?" Asked Barry.

"You know, I really don't think we're going to. I don't really want to."

"Why not? She was smart, funny, charismatic, not to mention smokin' hot. I'd think she was the perfect woman for you."

"She was," admitted Julian. "But something just didn't feel right. I felt like I was just staying with her because she should have been perfect, and not because I actually wanted to."

Barry nodded sympathetically. "You need to get out of here, man," he remarked. "We should take a vacation, spend some time in a foreign country. Be spontaneous, get into trouble with some young European girls who don't speak a word of English…" The man trailed off, clearly enjoying the thought.

"Is this for my own good or yours?" Julian asked, one eyebrow raised bemusedly.

"Both," Barry shrugged.

Julian grinned. "Maybe you're right," he said, "but let's finish training before we start making plans." He hefted his broadsword into both hands, gripping it comfortably as he stood up. Barry nodded, taking up his own.

Fencing had kept them from speaking, being such a quick, concentration-hungry sport, but the slower pace of this second round let them converse.

"Did you have anywhere in mind?" Julian asked as he lunged.

"Not really," Barry grunted, countering. "Paris?"

"I'm tired of France," Julian shook his head. "We went to Nice last summer."

"London then?"

"I don't feel like spending the rest of the summer in the same place I spent last winter. Besides, the people who run the youth hostel don't like me."

"How about Madrid? Barcelona? Rome?"

"_No,_" said Julian forcefully, lowering his sword. "Nowhere we've been before, nowhere I can hide and gripe."

Barry looked thoughtful. "What about… Prague, then? Never been to the Czech Republic before, have we? Heart of Europe?"

"Sounds good," Julian said, raising his sword to again clash with his friend's.

* * *

_"Aragorn."_

Julian looked down at the kneeling man in the leather jacket, startled, then looked back up at Barry. His friend mouthed something that looked like "your problem now," waving jauntily before continuing down to their gate. Normally he'd shake off this weirdo and catch up with Barry, but something stayed his hand.

"W-what did you say?" Julian stammered.

The man's smile widened. "You see it, don't you? You see _me_." He stood, embracing a slightly shaken Julian. "It's in your eyes," the main said. "Gimli, look."

A man standing a few feet away whom Julian hadn't noticed stepped forward and stared into Julian's eyes for a moment or two. "You're right," he said to his companion. "It's been a long time, Aragorn."

"Sorry," Julian cut in, shaking his head, "but I think you're mistaking me for someone else. My name's Julian, not Aragon, or whatever."

"Arago_r_n," the first man said forcefully. "With an r. 'Aragon' is a region of Spain."

"Sorry," Julian repeated, shrugging.

"And there is no mistake," the man continued, touching the green and gold tips of his spiked hair gently. "You _are_ Aragorn, whether you are aware of it or not."

"No, I'm not," Julian asserted.

"You were right," the second, stockier man said to the first. "The disbelief thing gets old fast."

"Your eyes cannot lie," the first, taller man said. "You know of what I speak."

The second man looked at the first with a large smile. "That's the first time I've heard you sound like _you_ so far. I think things are going better than you think, Legolas."

_Legolas._ The name brought on a sudden burst of clarity, like a light going on in Julian's mind. "Legolas?" He heard himself speak with a cadence that was not his own, looking from one man to the other. "Gimli? Man bragol amangalad sila ar im pela—" Aragorn stopped himself. "What the hell is going on?"

The first man, Legolas' eyes brightened. "You see now?" He said.

Aragorn froze for a few moments. The light was on in his mind, but it was far too bright. Nothing made sense, and no amount of focus would make the words go away this time. It was as if he were stuck in something, like mud, or maybe pudding. He felt like two people stitched together; both were trying to go opposite directions, and thus neither could go anywhere. He had a headache suddenly; his head was pounding, overfilled with thoughts, with memories, with lives. He broke out in a sprint, running all the way to the gate where Barry sat.

His friend had already made himself comfortable, and was thumbing through a magazine when Julian threw himself into the seat next to him. "What's the rush?" Barry asked, turning to him. "We don't board for another five hours or so."

"Nolan," said Julian. "I adan, úadan, i edhel… rínan— argh!" He shouted, startling passengers around them. "It won't stop! It keeps coming, no matter how hard I try!"

"Don't fight it," a Southern drawl said from behind him. "The more you fight it, the more forcefully it'll reassert itself." Before Julian knew what was happening, two books landed heavily in his lap.

"A little light reading," said another all-too-familiar voice. "It's going to be a long flight."

"Oh no," Barry sighed. "Do _not_ tell me the crazies are on our flight!"

Legolas gave Barry a look of disdain. "And, _you_ are?"

"Bartholomew Alvin Stewart-Grayson," Barry said haughtily. Julian's eyes widened. Legolas was really rubbing Barry the wrong way if he invoked his full name.

"Well, then, Bartholomew Alvin Stewart-Grayson," said Gimli, "if you'll excuse us, we have things to take care of."

"Fine," Barry sighed as he picked up his carry-on and moved down a few seats. "Bloody Dwarves," he could be heard to mutter.

All three heads swiveled in his direction. "What did you say?" Julian whispered, astonished.

"You heard me," Barry said. "Elves, too. Arrogant bastards, all of them, or at least all the ones I met. No respect for a man of my standing."

"But you're not—" Gimli was clearly stunned into silence.

"You can't be," Legolas shook his head as he spoke.

"No way," Julian protested as a huge smile broke across his face. "No fucking way."

"Language," Barry grinned. "And you, a king. Wish I'd lived to see that."

"This is impossible," said Julian.

"You'll find, my lord, that many things are possible," Barry replied.

"_Boromir?_"

"In the flesh," smiled Barry. "Well, not the _original_ flesh, that'd be kinda gross. Think of me as… Boromir 2.0."

Julian shook his head. "The bounds of your lameness continue to astound me, Barry, or Borry, or whatever."

"Hey, call me Borry one more time, and I'll shove the Horn of Gondor straight up your—"

"Okay," Julian said quickly. "I get it." He shook his head slightly; the headache was starting to come back. "Wait, so _how_ is this possible? When did you know?"

"As soon as the Elf hugged me. For one brief, deluded moment, I thought he was looking for me, until he called me 'king'. Then everything made sense. I knew who I was, I knew who he was, and I knew who _you_ were."

"You did?"

"Yeah, why else would I have handed them off to you? You're the one they were looking for."

"Because you're the kind of moron who would palm off a couple of strangers on me."

Barry rolled his eyes. "Look, can we just get past the whole amazement thing? It's already old." Both Legolas and Gimli nodded fervently.

* * *

"Don't tell me we're sitting in the same row!" 

"Well, what did you expect?" Legolas rolled his eyes at a surprised Julian. "We have a wizard who would appear to be directing this whole situation."

"Probably from atop a mountain, or some other unnecessarily flashy place," Barry muttered.

"Most likely," the Elf said with a touch of bitterness, rolling his eyes.

"You're doing it again," Gimli said loudly. Legolas ignored him. Julian looked at the two, and decided he didn't want to know what that had been referring to. He slumped down in his seat and opened one of the books Legolas had dropped in his lap back at the gate. He had stashed the giant tome that was _The Lord of the Rings_ in his carryon bag, opting to leave it for once they'd been in the air a while, and instead started to skim _The Languages of Tolkien's Middle Earth_. He was surprised to notice that he seemed to know a great deal of it already; he didn't know it well, more like how he recalled the fundamentals of his three years of high school French, but he recognized some words as those he'd unconsciously spoken so many times.

What really fascinated him was the section on _tengwar_, letters. They reminded him of the calligraphy his mother had written by hand on invitations to social events. He stared at them, transfixed, until he heard an "oof" from Barry as another large copy of _The Lord of the Rings_ was dumped on him.

"What, did you mug a meeting of the D D club?" Barry said, opening the book.

"Of course not," Legolas sighed. "I bought the first two books for Gimli, but I didn't know how much he already remembered."

"More like he didn't know it's been my favorite book since I was nine," Gimli scoffed.

"This copy," the Elf continued, "I bought in the bookstore in the terminal."

"Oh," Barry said, giving Legolas a fake smile. "Thanks."

"Is it accurate?" Julian asked, looking at Legolas with a rather serious expression.

"Mostly," the Elf shrugged.

"This is wrong," Julian said suddenly, pointing at a passage in the language book. "And so is that."

"I know," Legolas sighed. "But it's the best I could find on short notice. We can write an angry letter when this is all over."

* * *

"That's not right." 

Julian looked up from the last few pages of the appendices at the back of _The Lord of the Rings._ "What isn't?"

"That isn't," Barry said, pointing behind them. They were in line, waiting to leave the plane. Julian's eyes followed Barry's hand, and saw a tall man in a dark suit and sunglasses seven or eight people behind them.

"Still not following."

"That's an Armani suit," Barry said in a tone of voice that suggested that what he was implying was obvious.

"So?"

"So, we were in the last row of business class. No who flies coach wears Armani."

"I'm sure plenty of people who fly coach own Armani suits, Barry."

"Maybe," he muttered out of the corner of his mouth. "But how many of those people fly while _wearing_ their Armani?"

Julian pondered this for a second. Like it or not, Barry had a point.

"None, right?" Barry smiled, satisfied. "No one who flies coach wears Armani on their flight… much less four."

"Four?" Julian said skeptically, but sure enough, there were three other men in identical dark suits and sunglasses, two in each of the airline aisles, all of whom appeared to have been seated in economy class. He quickly looked ahead of them, and sure enough, four more identical black suits were just exiting first class.

"They've cased the joint," Julian muttered.

"What?"

"They knew where we were sitting. They've got us surrounded, damn it." The young man quickly got Legolas' eye and made the Elf aware of their situation with a couple of head jerks in either direction. "Good work, Barry. For once your shallow judgment of others has been an asset."

"Thanks, I try."

The line was moving faster now. The four companions were careful to maintain an even, brisk pace all the way to the baggage claim. Try as he might to keep his cool, Julian kept looking over his shoulder, hoping to see that the men had disappeared, but they continued to follow the four travelers, all eight in a row (looking a little too _Reservoir Dogs_ for his taste).

Luckily (or, like everything else they'd experienced, perhaps more than luck), their bags came almost immediately. Julian strapped his sword and scabbard to his belt, feeling a little less vulnerable. He stared off into space for a second or two, gazing at the group of men holding signs for passengers, when one sign caught his eye.

"Look," he said, elbowing Legolas. "That sign, there in the middle. That's… that's _tengwar_, isn't it?"

"Good work," the Elf smiled mysteriously. "Can you read it?"

"It says… _istuvalye. _'You will know'?"

"Well done, rookie."

"Elves say 'rookie'?"

Legolas, who had seemed to open up and brighten as the trip went on, was suddenly withdrawn once again. "I'm not an Elf anymore," he said softly. Julian reached his hand halfway out as if to offer some form of comfort, but decided against it. He turned, approaching the nondescript little man holding the Elvish sign.

"Uh, sir?" He said nervously. "I believe my companions and I are who you're looking for."

The little man smiled widely. "Well met, sir," he said brightly, reaching into his pocket for a set of keys.

"Wait," Julian said quickly. "We might not want to go just yet. You see, there are eight men who seem to be following us, and we were—"

"Nine," said the man. "Your pursuers met up with their ninth comrade at the baggage carousel."

"Oh," Julian bit his lip, wondering if this bit of news had been meant as comfort or warning.

"No worries, sir," said the man. "We currently have twenty identical cars in our employ, one of which will contain you young men and myself. If all are sent in different directions, it would seem to be highly unlikely we could be effectively traced."

"Well," said Julian, a little thrown. "That's a relief."

"May I take your bags, sir?"

"Sure, why not?" Julian shrugged as he handed the man his suitcase. Something about the man kept setting off a little bell in his mind. "Sorry, but are you… one of us?"

"One of who, sir?" Asked the little man, smiling widely.

"One of… oh, hell. Frodo?"

"You thought _I_ was Mister Frodo?" The little man seemed on the verge of giggles.

"Sam, then? Merry? Pip?"

"Apologies, sir, but no. You'll meet them soon enough though."

"But you _are_ a—"

"A hobbit?" Finished the little man. He didn't respond, but Julian noted a knowing twinkle in his eyes. "We haven't been properly introduced," he said. "My name's Fred."

"I'm Julian."

"Oh, I know who _you_ are, sir," remarked Fred.

"Your reputation preceding you, J-Man?" Barry quipped as the rest of their party joined them.

Julian gave him a sort of half-smile. "Let's just get in the car, funny man."

* * *

The four travelers and their guide arrived in front of a steel-and-glass hotel in the center of the city. Julian shielded his eyes from the brilliant sunlight reflecting off the building. Fred handed them each a room card. 

"You have the Junior Suites," he smiled, before driving off.

"Posh digs," remarked Barry, nodding approvingly as they entered the lobby. Arriving on the floor of their rooms, they split up to check out their suites separately.

Julian set his bags down on the floor next to his bed before switching on the television. He flipped through the channels for a while, his jet-lagged mind taking a few moments to register that he could not in fact understand Czech. Just as he gave up and turned it off, there was a knock on his door.

"Sir? You're expected in the London meeting room, on the first floor," said the voice on the other side of the door.

"Oh," answered Julian. "Thank you." He threw on a clean shirt and slipped his shoes back on before heading to the elevator, where he met up with Gimli, Barry, and Legolas.

The four didn't need to wonder which meeting room they were looking for; they could clearly hear the merrily chatting voices from all the way down the hall.

"Hey, where'd all the food go? I'm still hungry," said one voice.

"Yeah, what kind of second breakfast was that?" Said another.

"What are you talking about?" Asked a third. "You guys are such _pigs_.

"Oh, don't act so innocent, Jamie," countered the first. "I saw you shoveling in the bread and cheese."

"It's _Jimmy_, and I did not."

"Don't deny it," said the second voice. "And you, a vegetarian!"

"_Lacto-ovo _vegetarian! I can eat cheese!"

"You stick to that story," said a fourth voice in a rich Scottish brogue. "Where's that one bloke, Fred? Maybe he could get us some more."

"Dunno where he went, Sam," said the third voice, Jimmy. "He's been gone for a while."

"Has he, Mister Frodo? I hadn't noticed," remarked Sam.

"_Jimmy._"

"He went to pick us up at the airport," said Julian as he finally opened the door and regarded the four young men seated there. They were clustered at one end of the long table, with great stacks of empty plates before them. They sat in an array of positions; one with blond hair and green eyes sat up straight, his hands neatly folded, while the black-haired youth next to him was slumped forward with his chin in his hands. The other two were even more informal; one, with light brown hair and warm blue eyes, had his feet up on the table, while the other was slouched down so far in his chair that all Julian could see of him was a mop of brilliant auburn hair and two bright hazel eyes. He was currently covering the other half of his face with an open paperback copy of _Animal Farm_. All four looked up at Julian as he entered the room, the other three flanking him.

"And who's this one, then?" Asked the redhead from behind the book.

"Dunno, Pippin," answered the one with his feet on the table.

"I reckon he's the king," said the blond. "What do you think, Mister Frodo?"

"_Jimmy!_" Exclaimed the dark-haired one.

"I'm Julian," he cut in, sitting down next to Jimmy.

"Well, that doesn't answer the question, does it?" Said Pippin, rolling his eyes and sitting up. "We want to know _who_ you are, not who you _are_."

"I don't quite understand," said Julian, looking from one to the next.

The brown-haired one took his feet off the table. "What I think Pip's trying to say is that—"

"You were right," Barry said loudly. "He's the king."

"I am not!"

"Fine, he _was_ the king," Barry sighed.

"Strider?" The blond man's eyes lit up.

"I guess," Julian shrugged.

"Then who are you?" Asked the brown-haired man.

"Aw, don't pester them, Merry," said Jimmy.

"He's Boromir," said Gimli.

"Which would make you Gimli, wouldn't it?" Asked the blond (Sam, Julian assumed).

"Aye," Gimli replied.

"No need to ask who _you_ are," Pippin smiled widely as he looked at Legolas, the only one of the four travelers still standing. "You haven't— well, you _have_ changed a bit, but you're still mostly the same Legolas I remember."

"That's because he never died," said a new voice from the door.

"Hullo, Gandalf," said Pippin dismissively. "Really? You really _never_ died? Not even once?" Legolas shook his head. "Wow," glowed Pip.

Julian looked to the new arrival. For the most part, Gandalf hadn't changed much. The same benign features and twinkling blue eyes decorated his face; granted, the short hair, clipped goatee, and light-coloured business suit were a bit different, but all in all, it was the same old Mithrandir smiling at him.

"So we meet again," Julian murmured, smiling softly.

"No one really says that," Barry remarked.

Gandalf chuckled. "I see you've all met," he commented.

"Of course we have," Legolas replied. "You called us here."

"I did," Gandalf admitted, nodding. "But I cannot take credit for such an idea. That praise should be given to my current successor."

"I don't understand," said Jimmy.

"Surely you didn't think the job of Guardian of Middle-Earth had belonged to Mithrandir for all this time?" Asked Legolas. "I'm surprised he's even doing this."

Gandalf shrugged. "Indeed, this is not the Middle-Earth I kept," he assented, "but those of us who did keep it do not simply disappear into nothingness. It has been a great need that has called me back, called _you_ back."

"What great need?" Asked Merry.

"Alas, I am not the one to explain," said Gandalf, sitting down at the table. "Perhaps the man who is waiting outside the door would be better equipped to explain." With that, the door opened to reveal yet another man.

At first glance, such a man was not especially impressive. His dark brown hair hung just past his ears, and looked to be wild but well-tended. Rich brown eyes shined from behind a pair of round wire-rimmed glasses. He looked to be a great deal younger than Gandalf, and likewise, his dress differed greatly from the wizard. He wore a blue-striped Baja pullover and white linen pants that ended just above his ankles, exposing his Birkenstock-adorned feet. His nose had a distinct shape that suggested it had been broken at least once, and looked faintly aquiline; his skin tone didn't give conclusive evidence of where he was from, but instead suggested that he came from everywhere.

"He looks a bit like John Lennon," Pip whispered, elbowing Jimmy.

"I knew John Lennon," Legolas said loudly, "and _that_ is not John Lennon."

"You knew John Lennon?" Jimmy exclaimed, looking at the Elf in awe.

"I lived at the Dakota," Legolas shrugged.

"Seriously?" Jimmy looked like he was on the verge of wetting himself in excitement. "Jesus Christ!"

"Actually, now I usually go by Randall," said the man in the doorway.

**

* * *

Author's Note:** This may be the quickest I've ever posted a chapter of this. It's also indubitably the longest chapter yet. Yay my team! 

Thanks, as always, to my reviewers, without whom this story would have most definitely retreated into the depths of my imagination by now. Three new reviewers last chapter: Catta-mese, the wanna be dwarf, and Gaerwen.

Credit must go where credit is due. The use of the word "Hoobastank" as an expression of coolness is the brainchild of The Lonely Island, a website that is utterly (in their own words) ka-blamo.

As per usual, shameless plug time. Visit my Fanfiction LiveJournal (the link's in my profile). I actually did halfway-interesting things in it this chapter, including some animated pictures of my favorite lines in the story so far, and the actual playlist of "Julian and Barry's Bitchin' Training Mix."

Another shameless plug: I'm now a staff member in Laseri's C2 Community, LotR Cutting Room Floor. It's a fantastic little collection of stories that I highly recommend (I'd better; two of mine are there!).

Next Chapter: The Council of… Randall, I guess. We also get to see my hometown, beloved San Francisco, California.

Love, happy thoughts, and Thai food for all. Namaste, dear readers.


	6. Sam

**Author's Note:** I do not mean in any way to insult or compromise people's beliefs in my story. To take offense gives me way too much power. I am only a humble writer, and my idle thoughts are exactly that. My pseudo-blasphemous plot point is in fact honoring that which it would seem to mock, and I'm trying to give it a lot of thought. You wouldn't know it, but I was totally destroyed by nervousness for a few days after the last chapter was published, and all over what happened in those last few lines.  
I don't take kindly to insults, but any suggestions and _constructive_ criticism would be appreciated. I admit, I don't know very much when it comes to Biblical references, so I apologize for any mistakes.

**Six: Sam**

All eight travelers swiveled around to look at… Randall, Sam supposed. There was a long, awkward silence. Then, shattering the hush like a sledgehammer through a stained-glass window, there came a voice.

"I _had_ to have misheard that," said Boromir. "Someone said something I didn't hear, or I thought I heard someone say something that no one actually said, but I _can't_ have just heard what I think I did."

"Then I must be going crazy, too," Aragorn shook his head.

"So he's _really_ John Lennon?"

Aragorn sighed exasperatedly. "You are such an idiot."

"What? Why?"

"Oh, don't act like you didn't _already_ know he was Jesus," Legolas groaned, ignoring Boromir's apparent thick-headedness. "Just look at the stories! Extraordinary man who came to Earth to act as a sort of guardian to mankind? Died to save people, and came _back from the dead_?"

"Sorry, but do you think we could move off this topic?" Randall asked from the doorway. Sam noticed that the man was blushing furiously. _I didn't know the Maiar could be embarrassed, _he thought. "We have far graver things to speak of than who I used to be."

"Used to be?" Merry, always the critic, cocked an eyebrow.

"Come on, just leave him be," Pippin sighed, shutting his book and setting it down on the shiny mahogany tabletop. "If he doesn't want to talk about it, let's not press the issue."

"I can't tell if you're talking about him or yourself," Merry muttered under his breath. Pippin glared at him with an intensity that Sam hadn't yet seen from the young man.

"Hey, now," the blond man spoke up. "Let's not resort to being childish, eh? We're here for a reason."

"Ever the peacemaker, eh, Samwise?" Pippin remarked, a ghost of a smile on his face.

"Ahem, well," Aragorn broke the quiet (decidedly more gracefully than Boromir had). "Shall we then?"

Randall nodded, sitting down at the final open seat. "I suppose you all remember enough of times past to get a general idea of why we're here."

"Yeah, I think we all safely assumed this wasn't a reunion special for ABC," Boromir quipped. Mister Frodo laughed, and Randall smiled wryly, but that summed up most of the reaction in the room. Sam noted that Aragorn wore a look that plainly said that these sorts of lines were nothing new.

"So, how long have the two of you been traveling together?" The young man asked. "A couple of months at least, I'd say."

"Actually," Aragorn shrugged, "we've known each other since childhood. This whole thing is just a bizarre coincidence."

"Really?" Sam was amazed. "Blimey, that's lucky."

"I'm glad to see you're all so comfortable with Westron," Randall remarked.

"What, now?" Mister Frodo looked confused.

"Westron. You know, the language?"

"You mean you didn't notice?" Pippin stared at Mister Frodo as if he'd grown another limb. "God, I thought you'd just gotten used to it by the time we met."

"_What?_" Mister Frodo turned to Sam. "How long has this been going on?"

"A while," Sam shrugged.

"A while? Like, since Paris?"

"Longer."

"How much longer?" Sam didn't like the sudden dark tone in Mister Frodo's voice.

"Try since the Indian restaurant."

"_What?_"

"Boys, boys," Boromir cut in, suddenly the voice of reason. "Let's get back on topic."

"Thank you," said Randall as the men returned their gaze to him (though Mister Frodo still looked distressed). "As I was saying, it is a great need that has forced us to do the unprecedented, to do _this_."

"So we're revolutionizing the business of fighting evil?" Pippin cracked a crooked grin. Boromir snorted into his glass of water.

"I suppose," Randall shrugged, smiling good-naturedly. "We have toiled for many a year in attempts of battling this for which he have summoned you, and—"

"Dude, cut the archaic language," Aragorn interrupted. "You sound like you're reading a monologue. Just relax. We're not in the book, we're sitting in front of you."

Randall shrugged. "Fine. We've tried everything we could, but nothing's worked. Consider yourselves the last resort."

"Ouch."

"Shut up, Barry."

"I don't mean that as an insult," Randall said. "Think of it as a matter of retirement. You've already done your service to the universe, so to speak. This wouldn't be happening if we hadn't _literally_ tried everything else."

"So what is this 'big evil' that we're expected to fight?" Legolas asked.

"A deeply interlaced, elite society," Randall replied. "The nine major conglomerates that dictate to the world."

Silence.

"So," Mister Frodo said slowly. "We're battling corporate homogeneity?"

"Essentially."

"Well, shit."

"Language," Boromir tutted. Mister Frodo looked miffed.

"This is really the great evil you can't deal with without us?" Merry demanded.

"Come on, like it wasn't expected," Legolas rolled his eyes.

"Shut up, _you _didn't know," the young man retorted.

"Hey, leave him alone," Pippin protested, shooting Merry an imploring look.

"How exactly are we expected to go up against these corporate superpowers, anyway?" Sam asked.

"It's actually easier than one might think," Randall said. "These nine aren't much more than vessels in the long run. The real adversary is a hidden power than in fact controls all of them."

"Sorry, 'hidden power'?" Aragorn looked up inquisitively.

"In all outward appearances, it's a small company based in San Francisco," Randall said. "Red Eye, Inc. No one is aware of its hold over international media save for those in control of it."

"Wait," Boromir cut in. "I know enough about business to know that there is _no_ way one tiny little company can control the world like that… is there?"

"Easily enough," Gandalf replied, making his first real contribution to the meeting. "Remember, this isn't the first time one entity has used nine others to grab hold of the world."

"So you're saying that Sauron's back?" Merry asked.

"No," Randall asserted. "Sauron was indeed destroyed in the Third Age. But do not be foolish enough to think that there were not many who learned from his work."

"We're dealing with a copycat?"

"Isn't every epic good-versus-evil confrontation a carbon copy of some other?" Gimli said wisely.

"Go swill your wine," Legolas muttered.

"Sauron was not the first to forge an object of great power," Gandalf said, "nor was he the last. Many have tried, few have succeeded, but we have been confronted with the realization that this situation is one that will not simply remedy itself. We must 'think outside the box,' so to speak."

"I've heard a lot, Mithrandir," Legolas said, "but I never thought I'd hear you say 'think outside the box." Pippin giggled.

"Okay," Mister Frodo said. "Doesn't seem to be much to it. We bust in there, fire some bullets, and get the Ring, or whatever this bad boy is."

"_No_," Aragorn, Boromir, Gimli, and Legolas all said at once.

"No guns," Aragorn reasserted.

"Why not?" Mister Frodo looked confused. "I mean, my flags are out for gun control, but this would seem to be a pretty valid need."

"Because guns are for cowards, little man," Boromir sighed, as if this were the most obvious thing in the world. "There's no skill, no sense of honor, in firing a gun. To fight with blades takes thought and precision, to injure takes more. Trust me, we're far less likely to make silly mistakes and heedlessly take lives."

"Well spoken, old bean," Aragorn said softly, smiling.

"Very well spoken indeed," Randall nodded approvingly. "We're sending the four of you—" he pointed to Aragorn, Boromir, Legolas, and Gimli, "—to retrieve the Ring from San Francisco."

"So it _is_ a ring this time?" Gimli asked.

"Good of you to check," Gandalf remarked. "Yes, it is indeed a ring again."

"I want to go along," Mister Frodo said loudly. Everyone looked at him, surprised.

"You sure, Mister Frodo?"

"Jimmy," he whispered coolly.

"Sorry," Sam cringed. "'Jimmy'."

"I don't need to go on the mission or anything," Mister Frodo (Jimmy, Sam reminded himself) continued. "But I know the city, and I can get them where they need to go quickly and quietly."

Sam felt the need to be the voice of reason. "I'm sure Mister Gandalf and Mister Randall already have a job for—"

"That's a marvelous idea," Randall said, taking Sam by surprise. "Frodo and Sam, you two go to San Francisco with the others."

"Jimmy," corrected Mister Frodo, but with decidedly less conviction than usual, Sam noted.

"Oi!" Merry spoke up. "We're not staying behind!"

"Yeah," Pippin agreed enthusiastically. "We're not the bloody home front! What are we supposed to do while they're all living it up in California, sit here and knit?"

Mister Frodo stifled his laughter.

Pippin smirked at the older boy. "No, wait, that's what _you'd_ do," he sneered.

"It's just a hobby!" Mister Frodo protested.

"You two have a job all your own," Randall cut their side conversation short. "Pip, you and Merry proved to be an invaluable asset diplomatically during our last conflict. We plan to send you on a similar mission."

"And that would be…"

"Going into a forest that is seemingly impenetrable for such small forces as you, and yet finding aid and purpose there."

"And where would that be?" Pippin asked.

"Where else?" Merry replied. "New York."

* * *

"So what's your game plan?"

Sam looked up at Pippin from his seat on the bed. The four young men were sprawled around Merry's room, talking of this and that in an aimless way that had become quite routine over their time together. Mister Frodo was lying on the floor, his legs up in the air against the wall in what he told them was a yoga pose of some sort. Pippin was perched on top of the desk, his nose buried in yet another book, this time _The Perks of Being a Wallflower_. Sam was spread-eagled on the bed, watching Merry pace shirtless around the room, seemingly unable to decide what to wear.

"Game plan about what?" Sam asked.

"The whole Sanfran thing," Pippin said from behind his book. "Randall already said you can't be conspicuous, so that would probably count out friend's places and such."

"Why don't you ask Mister Frodo about that?"

"He's meditating."

"It's Jimmy, and we're still planning out the lodging situation," said Mister Frodo from the floor. Pip shrugged, returning to his book.

"Pippin," Merry turned to the young man, "which shirt should I wear?" He held up two collared shirts on hangers. One was a dark shade of cherry red, the other an odd orange-ish tone.

"How am I supposed to know?" Pippin said without looking up.

"Because you're, you know…"

"Just because I like to kiss other boys doesn't mean I know the first thing about fashion," Pip sighed.

"The burgundy one," Mister Frodo said.

"What?" Merry looked surprised.

"Wear the burgundy one," the young man repeated. "You look good in regal colors: maroon, eggplant, and the like. You might do well to burn the orange one too; it makes you look like an overgrown butternut squash."

Merry stared at Mister Frodo for a moment or two before indeed putting on the red shirt. "Is there something you failed to tell me, cousin?"

"I'm not your cousin," Mister Frodo said, but with a joking sort of smile. "Come on, I'm from San Francisco. At my high school, you either dressed well or joined a gang."

"A rather sad set of choices you had there, eh?" Pip remarked.

"Besides, it's no good to judge. Just because I _do_ know the first thing about fashion doesn't mean I like—"

"Les stéréotypes sont bêtes," Pippin said loudly. "Laissez-la."

"Really make me wish I'd taken French, don't you, Pip?" Sam smiled teasingly. Pippin winked, returning to his book.

Merry had taken his guitar from its case, and was sitting on the edge of the bed, idly strumming a couple of chords and humming. Sam couldn't tell what song he was playing, but he got the distinct feeling that he'd recognize the name.

"You like them, do you?" Mister Frodo asked, flipping himself over and propping his face up with his forearms.

"Who?" Merry asked, still strumming.

"The Beatles. That's 'For No One'."

"Is it?" Merry said. "I hadn't noticed."

"I know my Beatles songs," Mister Frodo replied, smiling proudly. "That's off _Revolver_, quite possibly the greatest album ever made. I'd say you like them, or at least you _love_ that song."

"Why do you say that?"

"Because you've played that every time you've picked up a guitar since Paris."

Pippin pointed at Mister Frodo's shirt, which had the cover of _Abbey Road_ silk-screened on it. "You're obsessed, you," he commented.

"Never said I wasn't," Mister Frodo smiled.

"Hey," Pip looked at the other three young men. "Four of them, four of us. How do you like that?"

"Are you suggesting we start a band?" Sam looked skeptical. "I've never been much for instruments."

"Not necessarily a band," Pippin rolled his eyes good-naturedly. "It just makes you wonder. These certainly aren't the _first_ lives we've had."

"You're forgetting that only two of them are dead, Pippin my dear."

"Three, if you count Paul," Mister Frodo laughed.

"Fine," Pippin shut his book and crossed his arms in front of his chest, leaning back on the window behind him. "If we were the Beatles, who would be which?"

"You'd be John, without a doubt," Mister Frodo pointed at the younger teen. "You're a total ham, and you've got this mysterious air that could easily veil a turbulent childhood."

"Not bad," Pip grinned approvingly. "Okay then, O Beatlemaster, what about the rest of you?"

"Well, Merry's most definitely Paul."

"Why do you say that?" Asked Merry.

"Because you're probably the only one of us who can tune a guitar," Mister Frodo smiled. "Plus you are most definitely the romantic of the group."

"No way."

"Don't deny it, you sod," Sam called from the bed. "I saw those French schoolgirls gushing over you on the train." Pippin cackled as Merry blushed, looking back down at the guitar.

"What about me?" Sam asked.

"You're Ringo," Pippin said.

"What? Why?"

"You're the 'conventional' one, the one who's happy to go right to work when the rest of us would probably just sit around and laugh at nothing." Sam thought about it for a moment, then nodded in agreement.

"Does that make you George, then?" Pippin asked Mister Frodo.

"I suppose," Mister Frodo shrugged.

"Yeah," Merry nodded approvingly. "You are George, through and through. You're the quiet one with a strong spiritual foundation, and the one most reluctant to embrace this newfound path."

"That, and you and I are the most likely to sit around and trip on acid," Pippin joked. Mister Frodo smiled.

"You wouldn't happen to be a total _god_ on the guitar, would you?" Sam asked, propping himself up on his elbows.

Mister Frodo didn't answer, just smiled gently and shut his eyes in meditation.

* * *

"I can't help but feel a bit depressed," Merry said.

"Why?" Asked Sam.

"Just when we're all back together, we're breaking apart again. I was hoping that we'd get to be together for at least a little while."

"Don't worry, Paulie," Mister Frodo cuffed him lightly on the arm. "We'll be back together soon enough."

"George is right, Merry," Pippin nodded. "It won't be long." Some unspoken agreement had transpired since their conversation in the hotel room the afternoon before; to do away with what discomfort and lingering disbelief he still had over the entire situation, Mister Frodo had taken to referring to the other three hobbits by their 'counterparts'. Sam found it strange, but it put Mister Frodo at ease, so he went along with it, while Merry and Pippin simply played along because they thought it was fun.

"Let's get a move on, then," Legolas shouted from outside the hotel, waving an arm. Sam bent down to pick his suitcase up from the floor of the lobby, shifting the strap onto his shoulder.

"What do you think of him?" Pippin asked.

"Who?"

"Legolas," the boy said. "I'm _fascinated_ by him. I think he's a trip." His eyes lit up as he said this.

"I suppose," Mister Frodo shrugged.

"Why does everyone keep saying that?" Merry sighed. "I hate the word 'suppose.' It seems so pretentious."

The four headed outside, where the rest of their party waited. Randall was handing out tickets and typed-up sheets of information.

"Boromir," he said. "You've demonstrated an unusual amount of comprehension of the situation. I want you to be the acting leader of this stage of the operation."

Boromir crossed his arms proudly. "Best be showing me a little more respect, eh, J-Man?" Aragorn rolled his eyes in reply.

"The six of you will be split up for the majority of the journey," Randall continued. "Sam and Frodo—"

"Jimmy."

"You two will take the first flight, and meet the others when their flight comes a few hours later." He handed them two nonstop tickets to San Francisco for later that evening. "Jimmy, I asked you to secure hotel reservations?"

"Done," Mister Frodo nodded. "In two different hotels, just like the planes."

"Good work. The first flight leaves in three hours, and you'll need to arrive some time before that, so I'll leave you to say your goodbyes."

"Cool beans," Mister Frodo said. Sam gave him a look. "What?"

"'Cool beans'? Honestly, that has to be the strangest term of agreement I've ever heard."

"Seriously? Sam, you really need to be exposed to the world."

Sam looked back at Merry and Pippin, who were lurking on the outskirts as if they didn't feel like they quite belonged in the little plan-making powwow. Sam strode over to them, and enveloped Merry in a tight hug.

"Don't worry, Mer," he murmured in the other hobbit's ear. "We'll be back before you even realize we're gone."

"Promise?" Merry laughed hollowly. Sam smiled, hugging Merry tighter.

Releasing each other, the two looked to see Pippin and Mister Frodo in a similar embrace.

"See you soon, Johnny Boy," Mister Frodo said.

"Not if I see you first," Pippin responded in a slightly softer tone. Mister Frodo laughed, patting Pip on the back.

"Sirs?" A voice said. Sam and Mister Frodo turned to see Fred standing next to the open door of their car. "I'm afraid we must go." Nodding, the two finished their goodbyes.

Sam ducked into the black Rolls Royce, but Mister Frodo turned back around to face Merry and Pippin. He put his palms together in a prayer position, and bowed slightly.

"Namaste!" he called to the two before he too got into the car.

"What's that supposed to mean?" Pippin shouted after them.

Mister Frodo leaned out the window. "Look it up!"

* * *

"What on earth…"

"What?" Mister Frodo looked confused.

"You changed!" Sam was stunned.

"And?" The younger man didn't seem to see this as reason for surprise.

"Why?"

"Because we just got off a plane," Mister Frodo explained. "I felt gross."

"So why didn't you wait to shower when we check into the hotel?"

"Because…" Mister Frodo trailed off.

"What is it?"

"Because I have another outfit for that," he said quickly.

"Good lord."

Mister Frodo ignored him, checking his hair in the mirror of the SFO bathroom.

"I can't get over this," he murmured.

"Can't get over what?" Asked Sam.

"My hair. When I left, I had stringy black hair, à la John Lennon in 1966. Now I've got this crazy mop of unruly curls that are, despite my best efforts, brown, and look a good two inches shorter than before."

"I'm sure it's just the humidity," Sam chuckled. "Don't forget, we've been in very humid areas for the last six weeks."

"Six weeks," Mister Frodo said softly. "Has it really been that long?"

"Six weeks," Sam nodded. "Summer is almost over."

They were silent for a few moments.

"Come on," Sam said, putting a hand on Mister Frodo's shoulder. "The others should be here by now."

* * *

"Welcome, guests and travelers!"

Sam and Mister Frodo looked up to see a slip of a woman waiting in the doorway of the inn. To Sam, she didn't really seem to be a woman, more of a vibrant smile from within a flurry of shimmering scarves. He shifted his bag onto his other shoulder, and held his hand out to be shaken. She took it with both of her small white hands and squeezed it gently.

"Welcome to the Red Vic," she said with an airy, sweet tone. "I'm Iris Moon."

"Namaste, Iris," Mister Frodo said, bowing as he had to Merry and Pippin at their departure. Iris smiled widely.

"You have a perfectly lovely aura, my dear," she sighed. "A handsome shade of blue, with some green here and there." Sam found such a statement quite odd, but Mister Frodo seemed to take it in stride.

"Thank you," he smiled. "Usually I've been told that it's the other way around."

"That can happen sometimes," she replied. "I'm inclined to think you've had a monumental change in your spiritual being recently. Am I correct?"

"One could say that," Mister Frodo shrugged.

"Ahem," Sam cleared his throat. "We have reservations?"

"Ah, yes," Iris said, beckoning the two to follow her into the building. "Your names, if you please?"

"The reservation's for the name 'Underhill," Mister Frodo said. Iris smiled bemusedly. "His name is Sam, and I'm—"

"That would make you 'Frodo', would it not?" Iris laughed. "I recognized the surname when you made the reservations. It makes sense; the two of you struck me as somehow different, closer to heart than most of our usual guests, and, may I say, that is saying something."

For the first time, Mister Frodo seemed a bit uneasy with the petite older woman. "We have the, er, Redwood Forest room?"

"Indeed," said Iris. "Here, let me help you with your things."

She led them to a room that struck Sam's fancy in a way few hotel rooms did. It was decorated in shades of green, with a mural of a forest on the wall. He set his things on the floor, and sat down gently on the bed.

"I could definitely feel at home here," he said brightly.

"Well, that's cool." Mister Frodo sprawled on the bed. "Let's get something to eat, I'm dying for dinner."

"Sounds good— aaah!" Sam threw his head back, just barely keeping the blood dripping from his nose from getting on his shirt. "Another one!"

"Sorry," Mister Frodo went to get tissues. "You don't know how dry the climate is here until you come back from Europe."

"It's no problem," Sam reassured as he moved to the floor, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Where do you want to eat?"

"There's Mexican food everywhere you look," Mister Frodo said, "and, oooh, there's Thai. Think of the best Elvish fare we ever had, and add peanuts and lime."

"Interesting," Sam said slowly, unconvinced. "Anything a little closer to the range of normal? I've never been much for foreign cuisine."

"Well, there's pizza," Mister Frodo said after a couple of seconds. "There's Fat Slice down the street, and Escape from New York's pretty good."

"Where's the best pizza place in the area?" Sam said, knowing Mister Frodo would have a definitive answer.

"North Beach."

* * *

"Wow, you weren't kidding," Sam said fifteen minutes later.

They were seated on the curb in front of the little North Beach Pizza a few blocks away, each working on a slice of cheese pizza.

"Less talk, more eat," Mister Frodo mumbled through a mouthful of pizza. Sam laughed, stuffing the last bite of crust into his mouth. He leaned back, lying down on the cool sidewalk with a satisfied look on his face.

"Now what do we do?" He said as Mister Frodo finished off his slice.

"Now we walk up and down Haight Street until it's time for supper," said Mister Frodo quite matter-of-factly.

"Sounds good," Sam nodded, standing and brushing himself off. They made their way over to the famed street in silence, save for Mister Frodo's overdramatic pantomime of vomit as they passed through the parking lot of the McDonald's on the corner. He quickly recovered from his feigned sickness, though, once they reached the window of the next building on the street, a behemoth of a store called Amoeba Music.

"Oh my _God_," he sighed contentedly. "I love this place."

"What's so special about it?" Sam asked, uncomprehending.

"What's so _special? _I practically grew up in this store! Amoeba was my third parent!"

"…Okay."

Mister Frodo looked faintly peeved, but let it slide as they walked further down the street.

"So, you never told me," he said. "How did you find out about… the thing?"

"The thing?" Sam was confused for a moment. "Oh, the 'thing.' You know you don't have to call it that. If they'd wanted us to keep our plans a secret, they'd have told us. Besides, it's not like _we're_ especially needed yet. We're effectively safe."

"I know," Mister Frodo sighed exasperatedly. "But still, I don't really want to think about that part of it. I'm home, and that's all that matters right now."

"Then why'd you ask me how I found out?"

"Why do you keep avoiding the question?"

Sam sighed. He'd been hoping Mister Frodo wouldn't notice.

"I was in Avebury," he said. "The stone circles, you know? Well, I was wandering around, looking at the stones, when I spotted a little pathway off to the left down the hill. I didn't follow it, but I could see a little gate at the end of it, and a little garden. I know it was unlikely, but it looked like the path led inside the hill on the other side. It fascinated me for a few minutes, and I didn't hear the absurdity of my thoughts until I accidentally said them aloud to myself."

"What'd you say?"

"I remember saying, 'That's a right good-sized hole, but I reckon it's not nearly as nice as Bag End.' Then everything just sort of made sense. It was a nice coincidence that Gandalf was in the gift shop later, or maybe more than coincidence. He never told me one way or the other, but I bet he was there to meet me."

"Wow, I like your story better than mine," said Mister Frodo. "It's a bit embarrassing every time I tell it. 'Oh, how'd I find out? Why, I dumped my girlfriend and ditched my best friend, then went and ate Indian food with a complete stranger."

"Not a _complete _stranger," Sam remarked.

"Not the point."

"I know."

"You always do," said Mister Frodo, lapsing into an uncomfortable silence.

"I'm sorry it happened that way," Sam ventured.

"I'm not," Mister Frodo shrugged. "I may like to gripe about it, but my life wasn't going nearly as well as I'd have you believe."

"What do you mean?"

"I was a burnout kid, a stoner with no plan and no direction."

"I'm sure it wasn't that bad."

"It was," he said flatly. "I'd always had my future laid out before me. I was going to go to college, get a degree, _be_ someone. But then I looked around and realized I was a total loser."

"Loser?"

"I was the shiny, skinny kid who had no friends and lived in the school library. There's one in every school. I was someone, but that someone was a no one." Mister Frodo sighed. "So I changed. I started making friends, pretending to like what they liked, until I believed myself. By the time I woke up, I was so far off-course that I almost didn't graduate, much less make it into college, but by then I convinced myself that I didn't care."

"Really?" Sam let out a low whistle. "That's, well… I don't quite know."

"I believe the word you're looking for is 'pathetic," said Mister Frodo.

"What about that one bloke you talk about a lot?" Sam asked. "Freddy?"

"Frankie," he corrected. "My best friend from diapers on. I basically dragged him along into the in crowd. Before that, he had found his niche as a video production geek. The funny thing was, he ended up feeling more at home with the new crowd than I did." Mister Frodo stopped, inhaling deeply from the Nag Champa incense wafting from an open shop door. "If I left my entire high school social life behind, he's the only one I'd miss."

"That's rather bleak, Mister Frodo," Sam remarked.

Mister Frodo looked over at him, his eyes hooded with a melancholy that Sam hadn't seen the likes of since Mordor.

"It's Jimmy," he said softly.

"Sorry."

They stopped in front of a store with an elaborate display of musical instruments.

"Come on," Mister Frodo jerked his head toward the entrance to the store. "If you're going to be Ringo, you need a drumset."

"A drumset?" Sam was apprehensive. "Are you sure we can afford that?"

"Of course," replied Mister Frodo. "Didn't you get a credit card before we left?"

Sam felt in his pocket, and sure enough, there was an envelope containing something that certainly felt like a card.

"Randall told me before we left Prague," Mister Frodo explained. "Somehow or another, our little company has acquired effectively unlimited finances. Something to do with ten thousand years of prudent investment."

"Well, that's convenient," remarked Sam as they went inside. He was content to browse, but Mister Frodo had been serious. In no time, the eager young man had chosen a set of Ludwig drums for Sam, and was pressing a pair of drumsticks into his hand.

"Try these on for size," he smiled.

"But I don't know how to play," Sam protested.

"So, you'll learn."

Sam shrugged, taking the sticks. He had to admit, they felt rather nice between his fingers, like a tiny taste of what he had felt that day in Avebury. He smiled at Mister Frodo, who was standing next to him with a knowing smile.

"You know that this means, don't you?" Sam pointed at Mister Frodo with one of his drumsticks. "You need a George Harrison guitar."

Mister Frodo looked away

"Oh, come on, what are you afraid of? You can't make a bigger fool of yourself than I will on the drums."

Mister Frodo let out a short, bitter laugh. He picked up a brown Rickenbacker off a stand nearby and slipped the strap over his shoulder. Picking up a pick off the counter next to them, he gave a little sigh of exasperation, and played.

And _played._

Sam was hypnotized by the ease and grace with which Mister Frodo made the guitar sing. It was poetry to watch the hands dance up and down the neck, touching the strings gently like a lover's caress. He played classical and rock, salsa and metal, for ten full minutes before lowering the pick. Sam let out a little gasp as he stopped, as if he'd been pulled from an embrace too soon.

"Hey, man, you can play!" A man called from across the shop.

"He's right," Sam agreed enthusiastically. "You are a guitar god after all. Why didn't you tell us?"

"Because I haven't picked one up in nearly two years," Mister Frodo looked away again. "Not since I got my new friends, so to speak."

"Another reason to leave them behind," Sam muttered, softly enough that no one heard but himself.

* * *

The next morning, the two got up early to walk in Golden Gate Park. Sam let out a sigh of comfort as they passed into the park, slipping off his shoes to feel the ground beneath his toes. Mister Frodo followed suit, kicking off the worn Birkenstocks that had become so familiar to the other hobbit.

"So what do you think of San Francisco?" Mister Frodo asked after the two had walked for a while.

"It's… different," replied Sam.

"Different good or different bad?"

"Good, I think," Sam said. "I'm not sure. Everything seems so _young,_ so full of vibrancy, so new. Everything in Europe is dripping with age and a certain amount of expected refinement."

"I know what you mean," remarked Mister Frodo. "I never really noticed it before, but compared to the great cities of the world, San Fran is like a rebellious teenager, saying 'here I am, and fuck you if you can't understand me."

"Someone's seen _Almost Famous._"

Mister Frodo blushed, looking suddenly like a little boy. The look was only passing though, as his eyes caught something in the distance.

"Don't move," he whispered.

"What?" Sam asked, looking around.

"I told you not to move!"

"Sorry," he said, as he spotted the reason Mister Frodo was suddenly so tense. Just barely fifty yards from them, moving among the trees, was a man in a dark, expensive-looking suit and dark sunglasses. It was a bit odd, but not especially menacing, that is until he noticed two identical men approaching from two other directions. Gripping the grass, he realized exactly who, no, _what_ he was seeing.

"Wraiths," he whispered.

"Run," said Mister Frodo.

Sam didn't need to be told twice. In a flash, the two were up, dashing through the woods as swiftly as any deer, without even taking care to bring their shoes along. They sped through the park as fast as they could manage, but the wraiths followed like shadows.

They ran across the street, heading back into the Haight. Without even needing to communicate, Sam and Mister Frodo both turned into the crowd inside Amoeba. Neither slowed as they entered; Sam managed to keep on his feet as he slid down the wheelchair ramp, but Mister Frodo lost his footing on the steps and fell, his head hitting the concrete floor with a loud _crack._

"Mister Frodo!" Sam yelped, picking him up by the collar of his jacket and dragged him into the Used Rock aisle. Propping the Mister Frodo into a sitting position, Sam slapped him lightly.

"Wake up, come on now."

"I'm okay," Mister Frodo groaned as he came out of his daze, rubbing his head where it had hit the cement. "Just a little bruised."

Sam let out a sigh of relief. "I was good and scared there for a moment, Mister Frodo."

"I'm okay, Sam," Mister Frodo reassured him.

Sam smiled to himself, noticing that it was the first time Mister Frodo hadn't corrected him about his name.

* * *

**Author's Note:** Thanks to my reviewers, as always. I now officially have more reviews on this story than on any other! Go me!

As always, check my fanfiction Livejournal for tidbits and other nice things. I don't believe I have as many cool things for this chapter as I did for the last one, but who knows, I may make some as time goes on.

Sorry if all the Beatles references in this chapter annoyed you. Another facet of my geekiness transcending genres. I'm also sorry if this chapter read like a tourist campaign for San Francisco.

Oh, and the Red Vic is a real B&B on Haight Street, run by a woman named Sami Sunchild. I completely disclaim. I've never stayed there, but I've always wanted to. sigh Someday...

Peace and love for you all.


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